


Hopeful Monsters

by westernredcedar



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical medical consent issues, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Kieren POV, M/M, Mentions HIV, Oral Sex, Post-Season/Series 02, Simon POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3067553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernredcedar/pseuds/westernredcedar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Kieren's been back in the land of the living for a year and a half now, but he's only just started to feel </i>alive<i>. He recalls his high school science teacher lecturing about punctuated equilibrium in the fossil record, long tracks of nothing, and then everything happening all at once. He thinks </i>what would a record of my life look like?<i> Punctuated doesn't even begin to describe it.</i></p><p>My attempt at a version of Season 3. I cannot wait to see it completely Jossed by an actual Season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fixer

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the great book7brokemybrain, who has beta'd this work so far, and is just a lovely human. I will be posting in chapters, alternating Simon and Kieren POV, until I get this all out of my brain. Hurrah! You know, posting a mythical season three makes me feel like a member of old-school Torchwood fandom, and that is a very good feeling to have. *nodnod* Also, I'll keep adding to the tags as warranted by the new chapters.

When Kieren Walker is eleven years old, his parents leave him in charge of his sister, Jem, for the first time, while they visit with the neighbors.

Kieren has always been a rule-follower himself, a good listener; he eats his peas and brushes his teeth and waits his turn. Not so Jem, who lives to drive her parents mental, and as soon as the door shuts behind them, Jem is off, digging up everything she can think of that she's not meant to do (try mum's make-up, jump on the sofa, eat a biscuit from the hidden package at the back of the cupboard). Kieren follows her around, his frustration quietly boiling, pulling forbidden items from her grasp, trying to reason with her wild little brain, even as she rolls down the stairs and climbs the bookshelves in the sitting room. 

Kieren watches it all happen: Jem scrambles to the top of the sideboard, tries to stand, wobbles, and knocks against the wall. The mask (their mum's collection, she'd wanted to be an anthropologist, before; she's told Kieren) tumbles down and hits the ground with an ugly crack. 

Kieren closes his eyes, breathes deep, is actually _angry_ that Jem won't mind him, that she doesn't care if he gets in trouble. He opens his mouth to scold, but before he can get a word out, her thin face crumples and regretful tears stream down her face, and Kieren can't hold on to his rage. He rushes to her, helps her climb down. He sits her on the sofa and gets her a glass of juice. She stays put and watches with her big eyes as he investigates the damage done.

The mask is split right down the middle. When Kieren holds it together, the two halves match up perfectly, only the thinnest of cracks visible. He shows Jem ("Jem, look here. It's not so bad. We can fix it."), and her panicked sobs reduce to deep snorting breaths. She wipes her nose on her sleeve. 

She watches attentively from the edge of the sofa, sipping her juice, as he gets out newspaper and glue and toothpicks and neatly affixes the two broken edges again, holding the two parts together until the glue sets. A fine line remains, but it is well hidden by the designs decorating the mask. 

"She won't even know, Jem," Kieren says as he gently hangs the mask back in place to finish drying, resettling the other objects that were shifted by Jem's climb up the shelves. 

She snuggles close to his side after that, and they quietly draw pictures together for the remaining minutes until their parents return home. Kieren is allowed to watch Jem alone from then on, and she never gives him much trouble.

The mask hangs on the wall for years, and all Kieren can ever see is the crack in it. 

*****

Kieren grows up, lives and dies and lives again, and mistakes aren't so simple to repair.

His parents are terrified of him. His sister has killed someone. He's been assaulted. His friend Amy is dead; he felt the life leave her, right out of her body and into the universe. He may be falling for someone, hard, right in the middle of it all. It's a bit much, really, rather more than he can take. Kieren would laugh if any of it were funny.

He's been back in the land of the living for a year and a half now, but he's only just started to feel _alive_. He recalls his high school science teacher lecturing about punctuated equilibrium in the fossil record, long tracks of nothing, and then everything happening all at once. He thinks _what would a record of my life look like?_ Punctuated doesn't even begin to describe it.

*

After Amy's funeral, Kieren suggests to his sister (twenty now, grown-up Jem) that they wait a breath before deciding who to tell about what she's done to Henry Lonsdale (shot him dead, her mistake; Kieren needs more than glue this time). He needs a moment, a moment to be sad and angry about it all, at least a few days. (In this new world where death is impermanent, it's hard to know how to grieve. Kieren keeps expecting Amy to saunter into his house, collapse on the sofa and bemoan her need for a bubble bath due to crawling back out of her grave _yet again_.) 

Jem nods, hugs him hard (that's new), and retreats to her room to sleep. She looks exhausted.

Kieren helps his parents with the tidying up after the guests leave. It's a hard finality, taking down the decorations, sweeping up the crumbs, like wiping Amy away, erasing her final day with them. 

He goes back to the bungalow with Simon after that, hungry for closeness. 

Simon Monroe, this stranger brought to him by Amy. Simon, who has disappeared and reappeared, who speaks in catechism but who tastes like spice and feels like solid granite. Kieren only has to lean in and Simon's hands are on him, his mouth against his in this frustrating, half-sensation, intense intimacy that they share. Kieren hasn't had a moment yet to sort what he really feels for this man (disciple? cult leader? lost soul? human?), beyond this hunger, but for now it's enough. They have time now; Simon's not leaving. 

They wind up on the floor of the sitting room, clothes strewn about; no one to walk in on them now Amy's gone. It's a bittersweet addendum to the farewell of the funeral, admitting they are alone. 

It's only a few days they've been like this, and it still feels brand new. The fire shocks of sensation that Kieren's sluggish nerves provide give just enough hint of what this _could_ be that Kieren wants to scream. It's all skin and touch and looks between them, the best moments coming from watching Simon's hands tracing patterns on his cold flesh, the pressure of his body on him, hands gripping his, mouths locked. And eyes. Kieren's never been much for eye contact before, but _Jesus_ , Simon's gaze.

It's a different kind of sex, with an abstract and inconclusive end (so different from the goal-oriented fumblings with Rick). Kieren has to pull himself away, curl up against Simon with his head on his chest to call a pause in the festivities. Simon (tuned in, quick to respond, Kieren notes) let's his stroking hand settle around Kieren's shoulder, and they lie still and quiet together. 

"My sister's in some trouble," Kieren says at last, his mind still sorting out the day. 

Simon cranes his head up from where he is sprawled on the floor to look at Kieren. "Can I help?"

"Nah. I've got to do this meself."

Kieren can feel Simon's nod, right through his body. "I should take a few days as well," Simon adds. "Go into the city. There's business I need to attend to."

Kieren's the one to look up this time. "Nothing dangerous?" Simon's told Kieren a bit about the mess he's in with the ULA, about what he's given up for him (a sacrifice Kieren is not sure what to make of, yet).

"Don't worry." Simon tries to reel him closer, but Kieren pushes back, sits up next to Simon, still leaning against him. 

"That's not an answer."

Simon lets this little half smile dart across his lips. "I suppose not."

Kieren can't bring himself to smile back. If his heart could beat, it would be racing. He stares at Simon, clenching his jaw tight. 

"I can't lose anyone else, Simon."

Simon's face softens to serious, he rubs a finger along Kieren's wrist. God, that gaze. 

"You won't."

Kieren feels an electrical jolt of sensation run through his fingertips; he needs to touch Simon, right then, all over, runs his hands over his broad chest and along the line of coarse hair on his stomach, and then he has to kiss him, and they start all over again. Or start where they left off. Kieren doesn't even know anymore. 

Punctuated equilibrium.

*

Kieren goes with Simon to the train platform the next morning. They wear cover-up and contacts and act nonchalant and shake hands at the door to the carriage. It feels like shit, but Simon promises to phone each evening and be back in Roarton in less than a week, so Kieren lets him go. He watches the train until it is out of sight round the bend, and then he watches for a while longer. 

He misses Amy.

*

Jem is waiting for him in the carport when he gets home. He can see she's hardly slept. She drags him upstairs to her room. (So much for a few days to mourn.)

"I want to start with mum and dad," she says. She's calm, casual, as if they are discussing plans for a holiday, not plans for confessing killing a (partially dead) schoolmate. It's eerie, how cheery she seems, and it occurs to Kieren his sister might be hiding more than just Henry Lonsdale, she's built up such defenses. Jem is munching snacks (leftover finger sandwiches from the funeral; Kieren tries not to think about it) as they sit together on her bed, settling on a plan. 

"That makes sense. Police next, or Mrs. Lonsdale?" 

Bite of sandwich. "I could only face her with you there."

"Of course I'll be there. You were for me."

Jem nods, and Kieren wonders why she'd doubt him after all she did for him with the Lancasters. "Council's hired a new constable. At fuckin' last," Jem adds, taking another bite. "We'll go to her. After his mum." She puts down her sandwich then, takes a deep breath, setting aside casual, and her tone shifts. "You'll go with me?"

"Yeah."

She pauses, finger tracing the patterns on her bedspread. "Do ye reckon they'll put me in a cell?"

"Probably, Jem."

She nods, and then takes Kieren's hand. He knows it's icy, but for once, she doesn't flinch. Her face crumples in on itself and she says, "I'm scared, Kier."

Kieren grips her hand hard. "Yeah. But trust me, you'll be less scared after." 

*

Jem wants one more day (tomorrow, breakfast), shuts herself in her room with music blaring, and Kieren's relieved. His parents are out, dad at work, mum volunteering. He's alone, something no one has let him be very often, since his return. He's nervous and edgy, hasn't slept, was up all night with Simon and then his own thoughts. He's just composed himself under a blanket on the sofa for a nap when there is a racket at the door: knocking, shouting.

"Kieren. Help! Please!" and more pounding, as Kieren staggers his exhausted self to the door.

Philip Wilson, Kieren's oldest childhood friend, filthy with mud and wild eyed, tracking dirt into the entryway. In that hectic last week, Kieren had somehow missed that Philip and Amy had found each other, hates himself for his distraction. It's likes knives, watching the pain Philip's in now. 

"It's gone, Kieren. I went to Am...to the bungalow, but you and Simon weren't there, so I came here. It's gone." He's pacing and wringing his hands and hasn't even looked at Kieren. 

"Slow down. What's gone?" 

Philip stops moving, looks at Kieren as if he's just realized where he is. "Tiger," he says, as if this should be obvious. "It was on her grave, and now it's gone."

"The...stuffed tiger?"

Philip nods.

Kieren thinks. "The caretakers must have come by. I think they tidy up..."

"There are footprints, and it looks...different...and..." Philip's voice fades out, but Kieren knows exactly what he's thinking, because he's been thinking it as well, for days. _She came back once..._ Oh god. _Maybe_ No no no.

"She's not alive any more, Philip."

Philip stills then, his face turning stony and his hands settling. He looks at Kieren, and Kieren looks back. "I can't, Kieren," he says at last. 

Kieren nods. He knows. "Come in and sit, will ye? Phil?"

Philip is still for a moment longer, his face pinched and frozen, but then he nods and Kieren ushers him into the sitting room. He slumps into the corner of the sofa, and Kieren leaves him for a moment to start the kettle. 

"Milk or sugar?" Kieren calls from the doorway.

"Who would do that? Rob a grave?" Philip mutters to the floor. 

The water's boiling. Kieren retreats and prepares the tea black. 

Philip is all vacant bafflement as he takes the mug from Kieren, his gaze far away. _Looks_ , Kieren thinks to himself, _like a zombie_.

"All right. Hang on," Kieren says. Before Philip can respond, Kieren dashes away up the stairs. It takes several minutes of digging through the stacked detritus of his childhood, but it's there, still stored in the box it had arrived in on his tenth birthday. 

Down the stairs again. "Remember the ages we spent, after school?" Kieren says as he unpacks the box and starts to set up. "Your mum would have to come and retrieve you so that you'd eat supper?" 

Philip sits up a little straighter, his face still and serious, looking at the box. Kieren gets out the board and starts to organize the cards.

"Phil, just one game, right? Take your mind off, just for a moment."

Phil looks on silently as Kieren removes the pieces. Then he leans up, with that game face Kieren remembers (year eight, best friends (before Rick)).

"I'm taking Asia," Philip says, and Kieren, exhausted, manages a smile. 

*

Two hours of world conquest later, Kieren's mum returns home ( _"Philip? So good to see you, love."_ ). A half hour later, his dad comes in as well ( _"Phil! Good old Risk, eh? Like old times round here tonight, is it?_ ). Kieren looks at Philip, who only says a polite, "Hello," to each of them before returning his full, intense concentration to the game.

At some point later, Kieren's mum places a bowl of pasta in front of Philip, and he immediately consumes the entire thing, attention still firmly on the game. Kieren wonders how long it's been since he ate properly.

Kieren wins once, Philip twice. They pack up the game in silence, and Kieren walks Philip to the door. He's calm now, but still a ghost of himself. 

"Something's not right, Kieren, at the cemetery." 

"I know, Phil. When Simon's back, we'll check it out. Promise."

Philip nods, pulls on his coat. He looks beaten down and tired. Kieren hopes maybe he can sleep tonight. 

He stands in the doorway for a moment, his back to Kieren. "I didn't understand before. What you did, after Rick," he says, so quiet. 

Kieren's body stills. Oh god. "Phil? You're not...?"

"No. Just. I understand now." Philip shrugs up his shoulders and digs his hands deep in his coat pockets before he turns away from Kieren and walks off into the night.

*

It's late, after a movie with his dad and a few lost hours painting in his room (trying to capture Simon's eyes; can't quite manage it yet). The nag of worry that has been eating at Kieren all day starts to settle in to panic.

It's midnight, and Simon's never phoned.

*


	2. The Negotiator

When Simon Monroe is eleven years old, he starts refusing to trim his hair. It grows long and stringy, his fringe well into his eyes, the rest curling onto his shoulders. Teachers comment on it ("Trying a new look, Simon?"). Tommy Clayton calls him a girl during maths class. His mum and dad think he's just being difficult (he hears them arguing about it one evening), starting his adolescent rebellion a few years early. 

None of that is quite right, though.

Simon likes how his hair hangs in his face, his own personal set of curtains that he can pull closed for privacy. _If I can't see you, you can't see me,_ even though he knows that isn't true, not really. No one can see him, anyway. Not really. Might as well make the outside match the inside.

His dad tries threats ("Stereo out of yer room") and bribes ("C'mon, son, we'll go for fish and chips after"), none of which have the desired effect. His mum is more patient, and more calculating. 

"I like your hair, love. You just go on and be yourself." 

Tommy Clayton's teasing intensifies the longer his hair grows. He recruits others. They offer a steady stream of snickers and comments that wear Simon down. He can't hold it in one afternoon after school as he gets in the car with his mum, just breaks down and cries hard and lists all of the insults and humiliations he's been subject to. His mum lends a sympathetic ear, murmuring comfort throughout. 

"I don't want you to cut it, love, but if it will make school easier, maybe we should..."

It's only after she's completed the trim, given him a long hug, and ordered his favorite take-away, that Simon realizes the waiting game she's played on him. He's angry for a few days, but then the teasing stops. His mum buys him a huge winter coat with a deep hood, almost as good as his hair for hiding.

For years after, Simon thinks about his mum and how she always seems to _know_ , even when he doesn't quite know himself. Thinks, _when there's trouble, it's mum I'll go to, no matter what._ For a long time he's in too much trouble for help, and then his trouble is too much even for her. But he never forgets, even when he can hardly bring himself to think of her at all.

*****

Simon watches out the window as Kieren and the platform grow smaller and smaller and then disappear as the train goes round the bend. He's not ready to leave Roarton again so soon. His body twitches to jump from the carriage and dash back, convince Kieren they should run off together; it's a physical ache in his chest. But this is the path he has chosen. No more running away.

Into the lion's den.

He's grabbed Amy's laptop, and finds himself spending the ride watching old Prophet videos, the earliest postings (nostalgia? guilt? loss? Simon's unsure). Simon has been trying to pinpoint when his life with the ULA had transformed from simple and clear to opaque and dangerous. Maybe it had never been simple and clear? Watching the old videos is comforting, but hardly illuminating. Mostly, it makes him miss his chosen family on the commune. Miss Amy. 

He slams the laptop shut and shoves it in his rucksack, then leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. 

Simon's never been good at transitions. He knows he's only truly happy when he's deeply immersed, when he has a purpose (he's had two: undead liberation, getting high). This no man's land between things, it's like floating. Like drowning. He recites his dealer's old mobile number (hasn't been connected for ages, he still dials it when he can't stop himself) like a meditation. 

_Stop. Christ, Simon._ Think of Kieren.

Kieren Walker, his salvation. Simon let's his mind retrace the paths his fingers had taken over Kieren's skin, only hours before; imagines the cool white of his eyes; wonders at the casual way Kieren can take Simon absolutely apart, with a look, a few choice words. Simon's thrown over every essential part of his life in one week of Kieren Walker's bewildering, steadying presence. 

Simon is no fool; he knows he's done the unforgivable, stopped the second Rising, betrayed the cause and all of his brothers. He doesn't have a moment's regret about his choice (dropping that knife had been one of the sweetest sensations of his life, then holding Kieren, feeling him move, alive), but he does regret the betrayal- how it appears that he no longer believes (not at all the truth), that he meant to do harm.

He just needs to survive. With Kieren, he's found something he was missing, even at his most passionate moments with the ULA: a reason to live.

*

The safe house is one of four the ULA still has established in the city, but Simon cannot recall the last time it was used. Things had happened while he was up north running the commune, of course, but he'd been kept in the loop; Julian or Nate would phone. The building is still boarded up, and does not appear disturbed or inhabited. Simon walks onto the weed-choked lot like he belongs there (neighbors could be watching) and uses the key (Nina made it for him, last time they met up; seems ages ago) to get in the back entrance.

The room on the third story opens with the same key, and the layers of dust confirm Simon's impression that the building has been lying dormant.

Bed, phone, water, table and chairs, bottle of homebrewed neurotrip. Only enough for a few days' residence, but that's all he needs. Shoe box under the bed with maps, an unmarked list of phone numbers, and three vials of Blue Oblivion. 

Simon sits on the edge of the bed for several long minutes, holding the phone list. Closes his eyes and imagines the determined look on Kieren's face moments before he kisses him. He reaches for the receiver. 

Three rings, and silence answers. 

"It's Simon," he says, voice steady. "I'm here to talk."

There's a faint exhale, Simon can almost feel it on his ear, and the line disconnects with a firm click.

*

Simon figures it will take a few hours of coded phone calls and scrambling around for the network to figure out what to do with him now that he's come forward. He uses the wait to lie down and rest. He's slept only a few hours in the last few days. 

The sound of the door slamming rouses him. He rises, steadies himself. Loud footsteps on the staircase. At least whoever it is doesn't feel the need for stealth. For a moment, Simon lets himself feel a glimmer of hope. 

He expects vengeance, but he's still shocked by the reality of Julian (whose embrace had brought him into the fold that first day) slamming through the door, knife held loosely at his side. (Had he really thought they'd just talk it out? Shit, he had.)

"Julian, listen to me."

Julian is huge, looming. Simon remembers the feel of his arms around him, many times, his solid frame, a rock. 

The knife shifts in Julian's grip, points up and towards Simon just a fraction. "I don't think so. Not anymore, Simon."

"I got it wrong, Julian."

"Don't try to fuckin' talk your way out of this, Simon." 

Julian rushes him. Simon has time to get his hands up, but Julian grabs one wrist and wrenches it around, slamming Simon into the wall and twisting his arm at his back. Simon can only fantasize the pain, but he can feel the pressure of his shoulder threatening to give. He can't stop himself from struggling. _(Oh god, Kieren.)_

Simon can't see the knife, but he imagines the feel of it ghosting at the back of his neck. _Stick to your plan, Monroe. You know what to say._ "Christ, Julian. Jesus. What was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to follow orders, disciple." 

"Murder an innocent? One of the Redeemed? Is that what the Prophet wants from me now?" 

Julian hesitates, Simon can feel his body still and draw back, the torque on his shoulder lessen a fraction. "What's this shite? You were certain. First risen."

"I was wrong. He wasn't the right one. Tell him."

"That's bullshit." Julian wrenches his arm tight again.

"My information was wrong, Julian. I had to call it off." Simon had practiced his argument, over and over. _Fix this. Move the search away from Roarton, away from Kieren._ "Christ, Julian, you of all people should be pleased we've avoided another meaningless murder." (Unfair to throw Julian's own violent death at him, but what about this whole situation is fair?)

Julian's grip loosens. He pulls Simon back from the wall and shoves him onto the bed. Before Simon can get his footing or open his mouth to say more, Julian is on him again, grabbing his arm at the wrist. With a solid click, he realizes Julian has handcuffed him to the metal frame of the bed.

"What the hell? Julian?"

"Can't have you running off." Julian steps back and picks up the knife where he dropped it in the scuffle, points it at Simon's face. "You're a traitor, Simon. And there's fuck all you can say to change that." 

Julian slams the door behind him, his footsteps echoing his retreat.

"Julian!" Simon shouts after him, but he's alone. He closes his eyes and let's out a shuddering breath. 

"Jesus. _Kieren_."

*

The night is endless, dark and silent. Simon sleeps in short bursts when he simply cannot stay awake any longer, his arm suspended at an angle by the cuffs, his mind a whirlwind. 

His first thoughts are of escape, of course. The intense desire to run, far and fast, is like blood pumping in his veins again. The bed is bolted to the floor and no amount of twisting or prying frees his arm from its prison. He stops when he starts to rub his skin raw at the wrist (it'll never heal).

Later, after a rest, calmer. Speaks aloud a prayer, hoping he's heard. 

_I'm trapped here, so what now?_ Thinks of his mum. He'd survived on the streets for a long time thinking like her: patient, calculating. The goal hasn't changed; live through this, get back to Kieren. (Kieren, shit, he's expecting a call; phone's across the room.) Julian will return for him, he's sure, and he needs to be prepared. He talks it out to himself in the thin light from the street, a plan of sorts taking loose shape in his mind; he knows things, has some advantages he can leverage. 

He drifts off to the whirr of his own mind, trying to stay alive.

*

It's just after dawn when a new horror rears its head. 

It's a dull tug in his chest and a creeping itch on his skin. When he sits up, there is a small black dot of something left behind on the pillow. He wipes at his nose, and there's another spot of black.

Oh god. Christ. The prophet knows how to mete out punishment to fit the crime.

Kieren had given him an injection before they left for the train station, but that was twenty-four hours ago. The safehouse bottle of neurotriptyline is sitting on the table, tauntingly out of reach. His own dose is hopelessly far away in his rucksack by the door. Cold fear ices down Simon’s spine. _I hold the keys to hell and death in my hands._

Simon is abruptly wide awake, terror coursing through him like a river. There's no holding this back. He can't stop himself from tugging at his restraint, ripping his fragile skin. He shouts, loud, for help, but he also hopes no one will come, just in case. He can't hurt anyone else. (He's carried a bottle of Blue Oblivion with him for years, but it's only for form's sake, to fit in with his ULA brothers. Returning to that state is his worst version of hell, the ultimate nightmare.)

Simon's body roils, rolls, and more ichor dribbles from his nose. His skin tingles, like the pinpricks of pain from a numb limb waking up. He's shouting, his voice halting, deep, and grunting. ( _Remember Kieren fighting it. Fight it._ ) He's so frantic, he only faintly processes it when Julian slams open the door, holding a syringe like a weapon. It's not until hands are on him, shoving him back onto the bed and jabbing the injection into his spinal column that Simon realizes he's being saved, that the injection has come just in time.

Simon can only lie still, flat on his stomach, eyes closed and mind awhirl, feeling the drug course through his body (Jesus, the pleasure of it, it's far too familiar). He slowly returns to normal, to numb. Julian releases the hard pressure from his back, where he must have been sitting or kneeling to hold him down and inject him. Simon can't turn to look, knows his face must be streaked with black fluid and fear. Can't face Julian like that. (They've seen each other low before, but never this low.)

Julian breaks the silence. "Understand the stakes now, brother? I won't be coming to save you tomorrow."

It takes Simon's rattled mind a few minutes to calm enough to find his plan again, find his voice. Play his one remaining card. There is the creak of a chair, as if Julian has taken a seat, waiting for Simon to recover. More fool him. Simon's thankful Julian isn't holding back punishment out of camaraderie or friendship. Makes this bit easier.

"I want to make a deal," Simon stutters at last, into the bedspread. 

Julian lets out a derisive snort. "You're in no position to bargain, Monroe."

"I have information that the Prophet will want to hear. About Victus."

"Victus?" It's obviously not what Julian expects to hear. 

Simon pulls himself up, wipes at his face with the bed sheet, and turns to face his captor. "MP for Roarton Valley, member of Victus. I have information about her."

"Who gives a fuck about Victus?"

"You do, Julian. Listen." Simon has Julian's full attention now. Simon is still shaky and tingling, but at least he's back on task. _Distract. Move the search away from Kieren, stay alive._

"This woman- Martin- she knew. All of our plans. The prophecy of the second rising, the exact date, time." Simon let's himself indulge in a moment of overacting, scratching his chin, rubbing away another sticky spot of bile. "Thinking of it now, she knew every detail in the video you shared with me at our last meeting, Julian. As if she'd seen it."

Julian is very still across the room, his eyes slits, his hands grasped tight in his lap. 

"It was almost as if she'd been fed that information. Maybe by someone working from within the organization."

Julian snaps up, his voice far too loud. "You accusing me of feeding that cow information about the second rising?" Julian smiles, his dark smile. "What are you playing at, Simon? If I was a traitor, I'd just kill you now."

"I've written all this down. Told a friend of mine if he didn't hear from me to send my suspicions on to the ULA, that I may have been killed by the informant." It's a bluff, but not one Julian can check, or risk. Simon holds his face steady. "Can't take any chances. Where did that video get to anyway, Julian? You were the last person I saw with the DVD."

"If you are fucking implying..."

"I'm not implying anything, brother. All I said is that I want to make a deal."

Julian takes a long moment. Simon can almost see the cogs turning in his mind, considering the alternatives. Finally, he shakes his head, his jaw clenched, and Simon knows he's got him. "You bastard. What do you want?"

"I didn't betray anyone. Call off the dogs."

"Can't."

"My friend is already concerned about me I'm sure. He expected me to phone last night. Hope he didn't do anything rash."

"I didn't pass any fuckin' DVD to Victus."

"And I didn't stop the second Rising."

They stare at each other for what feels like a lifetime (Simon's oldest Undead compatriot, his guide and brother; how had it come to this?), until Julian gives a short, sharp nod and picks up his phone. 

*

It takes a miserable, tense few minutes of phone calls and texts before Simon's forgiveness is broadcast through the network. 

When it's done, Julian turns to Simon, flips him the key to the handcuffs, and turns his back. They haven't spoken a word more to each other.

"We're done, Monroe. Don't call me, don't speak to me, don't even think my name."

The rejection hurts more than Simon expects. He gets a sudden and intense flash of memory from years back, sitting with Julian by candlelight in some rotten hole of an shelter, late at night, sharing increasingly exaggerated stories of their years living rough, and wishfully bemoaning the fact they they couldn't be high, or at least drunk.

"Sure, brother. Don't get all misty on me," he says, instead of any of that. 

Julian slams the door as he leaves, doesn't look back.

*

Voicemail picks up, Steve's voice, easy and friendly, no hidden motives. "You've reached the Walker family..." Simon takes a deep and cleansing breath, in and out. Yes, this is why he's doing all of this; he'd almost forgotten.

"It's Simon. Would ye let Kieren know I'll be home in a few days. Visiting old friends." He almost hangs up, then adds, "Kieren. If you're hearing this, I'm..." He can't find the right word, settles for, "...all right." Ends the call.

He's almost free of this, almost in the clear. Simon grabs his rucksack and leaves the ULA behind him. 

*


	3. The Steward

When Kieren Walker is sixteen, he kisses his friend Rick for the first time. 

They've sneaked out to the cave. It's late. They're sitting side by side, taking turns drinking from a tallboy they snatched from Rick's dad, trying to make each other laugh and snort beer. 

There's a pause in the festivities, a calm as Rick takes a long swallow. Kieren basks in the warm feeling in his gut (happiness? alcohol?), his shoulder solidly pressed into Rick's. They've started doing this recently, touching each other; Kieren's well aware of the change. Now he doesn't think, just lets his own grin carry him forward until his lips are pressed, ever so light and quick, against the curve of Rick's throat, just below his ear. Then back. 

_Shit. Don't look at him. Maybe pretend like that never happened._

Rick goes very still, and it's quiet, no more laughter (seems like minutes, but probably only seconds, Kieren thinks later). Kieren can't breathe, can't believe what a fool he's been, can't move. His only remaining friend gone, and what will life be worth? 

Then, like a miracle, Rick leans over and kisses Kieren back, right on the jawline, warm and soft, doesn't stop there. His lips crawl down Kieren's neck and onto the exposed skin at his collar. Kieren's entire body floods with heat, he might set the cave alight with the fire in his skin. Quick as it started, Rick pulls away and leans back against the cave wall again, as if nothing has happened. Their shoulders still touching. 

It's silent, but for breathing, for a long time. Kieren's heart feels like it's going to pound out of his chest. Rick must be able to hear it, feel it. In the darkness, Rick's fingers find Kieren's, intertwine. Holding hands, they sit side by side in the damp and cold. 

"Ready?" Rick says at last. 

_"Yes, ready,"_ Kieren thinks, even though he's not actually sure what Rick's asking. But then Rick pulls Kieren to his feet, releases his hand. Smiles in the dim light, a tight, small smile, and turns toward the exit to the cave, toward home.

Kieren's accelerating heart will have none of that. He grabs Rick's arm, stops him, reels him back into a hug, a full body hug that Rick falls into, resists for a moment, and finally joins, wrapping his arms around Kieren hard and almost lifting him off the ground (hard muscle and bone, Kieren can feel it all pressed against him, like the earth).

As they separate, Rick smiles, his real smile this time, and gives Kieren a nudge on the shoulder. "Yeah, so that's all right, then," he says.

"Yeah. All right," Kieren agrees, all he can manage. 

They walk beside each other all the way home, not touching.

*****

Kieren doesn't get much sleep the night after realizing he hasn't heard from Simon. His dreams are messy and confusing, filled with long chases that go nowhere, dark tunnels, and doors that don't open. He's rumpled, worried, and out of sorts when he joins his family downstairs in the morning.

Jem stares at him for a long moment until he remembers what she has planned, what he needs to do to be there for her today. He tries to shake off the itch of his concern for Simon (Simon's a grown-up, he can take care of himself, can't he?) and focus on his sister. Kieren slides into his place at the table. 

It's not long into breakfast when Kieren realizes Jem doesn't know how to begin. He can't blame her really. There's no good way to confess killing someone, especially to your parents over tea and toast. But Kieren had promised he'd help her, so after five minutes of Jem awkwardly glancing his way over the edge of her mug, he tries.

"Jem?"

She looks up, startled. 

"Didn't you tell me you had something you wanted to talk to mum and dad about?" It's clumsy, but it works. Everyone stops, looks up at Jem.

"Did you, love?" Sue asks, setting down her mug. 

Jem's expression (eyes huge, tears just beneath the surface) is enough to quiet the table and make Steve put down his paper. 

"What is it, Jem?" he asks, leaning forward, hands folded on the table. _Problem solver pose_ , Kieren notes, almost smiles. 

Jem's eyes flit to Kieren, then down to the table, then up to Sue, Steve, then down again. "Yeah, I...I have to tell you something."

"Go on, sweetheart. You can tell us anything." Sue reaches for Jem's hands, where they are fidgeting together next to her half-eaten eggs and toast. 

"It's about something I did. Something bad."

Kieren watches. Steve shifts in his chair, making it creak. Sue adds her other hand to Jem's, holding tight. 

"You can tell us anything, love." Sue's voice is soft and steady. 

Jem's gaze meets Kieren's for a moment, and he gives her a tiny nod. He catches the slight up and down movement of her throat as she swallows, then says, "It's about Henry. Henry Lonsdale."

*

One thing Kieren has always appreciated about his parents: they are not ones to create a scene. They listen calmly to Jem explain about going out in the woods that night, about her confusion, firing into the dark, and the horror of realizing what she'd done. About finding Henry's body, and the single trickle of black blood. About Maxine and Gary; about her dreams. No one moves much, Sue holds Jem's hands and Steve nods, leans in, and makes little acknowledging sounds ("Mmm," "Sure, yes," "Hmm") throughout. 

When she's finished ("I'm ready to face up to what I did"), they don't yell or make speeches about their disappointment. They don't cry. Sue just dabs the corners of her mouth with her serviette, pushes back from the table, and starts clearing the dishes. 

"Mum?" Kieren says.

"I'd like to tidy up, love," she says, her voice shallow and shaky. 

Jem gives Kieren a pleading look, biting at her lip, but Kieren just takes a deep breath and rises to help his mum. "Sure, mum."

"Why don't we just stay put, Jem," Steve adds. "Let mum and Kieren take care of things."

Kieren assists his mum through a tense and silent washing up. They get the plates and silverware into the dishwasher without incident. Sue steps back, can't look Kieren in the eye, just grabs him solidly by his shoulders and kisses him, light and quick, on the cheek. 

"It'll be all right, mum," Kieren says. Her fear radiates like heat. 

Sue nods, and then trots back into the dining room where Jem and Steve remain, each quietly contemplating the surface of the table. 

"Well then, what do we do?" she asks.

*

Eventually, they all four walk together down to the Lonsdale's house, but find that no one responds to their knocks. Ellie Hanford, next door, peeps out to say that Sylvia has gone off to stay with her brother's family for the holidays, now that Henry's gone again and she's alone. 

They continue their walk down to the police station (like they're just out for a morning stroll, as a family). Jem strides right up and turns herself over to the new constable, a tall, friendly woman named Rethi Shah, who takes Jem into the office with one arm round her shoulder, and who offers them all tea before booking Jem into the gaol. 

"She'll have to be transferred up to the city," Rethi Shah says, mostly to Sue, who's taken the seat closest to Jem, holding her hand. Kieren hovers near the door, helpless. "Might be a day or two."

They all hug Jem before the constable takes her away to the little cell in the back. 

Kieren holds Jem tight; she's shaking a little. 

"Feel any better yet?" he whispers.

She pulls back, eyes wet, and offers a sad smile. "Yeah, little brother. I do."

*

They troop back home, Jem's absence a presence. When they get there, Sue goes straight for the kitchen ("I'll take supper down to her tonight. Shall I make something for that nice constable as well, do you think?"), Steve gets his paper and starts again where he'd left off at the breakfast table. It's so quiet, but the cacophony of unspoken words rings in Kieren's ears.

Kieren doesn't know what to do with himself. Gets a drawing pad from his room and fusses with sketches (Still on Simon's eyes, _Shit, don't think of Simon_ ) for a while. Eventually he wanders back downstairs. His dad has on a DVD, some old black and white comedy. They watch, and no one laughs. 

*

Shirley Wilson stops in later in the afternoon. It's not her usual day for rounds to check on Kieren, but gossip has spread. She's full of village talk. Kieren finds her warm voice a welcome change after the silent morning. 

"And that new constable's taken in Gary Kendal as well. Seeing as he disposed of the body and all." Shirley gives a distasteful _tsk_ and sips her tea. "Poor dear Jem, what she must be going through. Oh, poor Henry!"

"Care for more tea, Shirley?" Sue asks, rising for the kitchen. 

"Thanks, Sue, but I really can't stay. Just wanted to check in. Philip is still doing poorly, I don't like to leave him alone for long." 

Kieren remembers the emptiness in Philip's eyes, remembers how that felt. How it feels. He offers, "I can come by tomorrow, Shirley." Kieren needs something to do, needs to get out of this house, out of the stew of his own mind. 

"That would be so kind of you, Kieren. I do believe Philip would like that." Shirley rises and slides on her coat. "What's happened to that handsome Simon of yours, Kieren? Haven't seen him for a day or two."

Kieren opens his mouth to protest ( _"He's not mine"_ ), but Steve speaks first. "Oh Kieren, that reminds me. Simon phoned for you. Must have been when we were all...out this morning."

Oh, Christ. Thank god. Every sluggish nerve in Kieren's body takes this opportunity to fire off a blast of sensation, like a firework of feeling in his skin. "Did he?" he manages to say, when what he really wants to collapse to the floor. So much stored tension seeps out of his pores that Kieren imagines it might puddle on the floor. 

"Message is saved, if you need to hear it," Steve says. "You just press the button that says replay."

"Yeah, I know, dad."

"That Simon seems like a keeper to me, Kieren," Shirley adds, with a wink. 

After Shirley leaves, Kieren listens to the message twelve times, each time thinking more and more about that long pause before Simon says he's all right. 

*


	4. The Ambassador

When Simon Monroe is seventeen, he leaves home for good. He ends up the sixth flatmate in a tiny slum in Dublin, paying his way out of the piles of change he makes busking on street corners and at the train station. His bedroom is a single mattress in the corner, shielded by a sheet tacked to the ceiling, his presence tolerated due to his ability to cook, play guitar, and provide his fair share of narcotics. 

Most of his flatmates are generic-grade potheads when he moves in. He's been into more interesting stuff for a while now, currently making his way through the pantheon of hallucinogenics, looking for that perfect alternative to reality (hasn't found it yet). He introduces his flatmates to all manner of shit.

There's a tall, skinny kid named Ryan, just a year older than Simon, and a sweet girl named Sarah, both of whom prove to be up for anything. Simon is aware that Sarah would sleep with him if he gave her any indication of interest. She's always nearby, always willing to try whatever Simon's shilling that day, constantly, casually touches his arms and shoulders; he's seen this pattern before. Twice, she's "accidentally" fallen asleep in his bed and he's had to relocate to the sofa for the night. 

He comes home one evening with a few hits of ecstasy he's been given by one of the club kids he deals with sometimes. Sarah and Ryan are snuggled together on the sofa, watching crap telly. Simon only needs to raise his eyebrows at them just right and Ryan shuts the telly off and leans back, stretching his long legs out in front of him. 

"So. What've you got?" 

Simon grins. "Ever tried E?" 

Sarah sits up, her big eyes wide. Gorgeous. Simon, as always, looks at her and wishes he was someone else, anyone else. "I've always wanted to," she says. 

"I ain't never tried it, but I hear it makes you wanna fuck," Ryan adds, in his low voice.

Sarah laughs and wobbles up from the sofa. She smiles at Simon and wanders over to their old stereo to put some music on. 

Simon sits down next to Ryan on the sofa. Ryan's still reclined, staring at him. There's an odd electricity between them as Simon pulls out the little baggy of pills. Without prompting, Ryan leans over and whispers in Simon's ear. "Sarah's been drinking whiskey all afternoon. Wait her out, she's gonna fold any minute."

Indeed, Sarah rolls back over to the sofa and ensconces herself against Simon's side, one hand sliding up under his shirt and onto the bare skin of his stomach, giving his nerves a jolt. He puts a comforting hand around her shoulder to hold her up. 

"I wanna try it, Simon. Just need a bit of a rest first, right?" she slurs, her eyes drifting closed, her head leaning hard on Simon's shoulder. 

Ryan ignores Sarah, reaches over and grabs a pill, pops it on his tongue, holds Simon's gaze. Then he gets out a pill for Simon as well, contemplates it between his thumb and forefinger for a moment. Trapped beneath Sarah's sleepy weight, Simon opens his mouth and Ryan places the pill on his tongue, lingers with his fingers against Simon's mouth, then pulls away and sits back down at Simon's side. 

Jesus. 

Simon knows he wants to fuck Ryan, has for months. He's known for years that he only wants to fuck boys, but he's never had a boy next to him before, offering himself to him with his eyes and his fingers and his whispers. Simon doesn't know what the hell to do except sit still, hold on to Sarah, and wait for the drug to kick in. 

They recline and quietly listen to most of one album before Simon feels the first wave of pleasure course through him. He turns his head to see what Ryan is doing, and it's clear he's feeling it too; his thin face is alight. 

Simon can't help it, reaches his free hand over to run his fingers along the long line of Ryan's throat (feels like silk) and along the curve of his collarbones. Ryan responds by leaning over and running his tongue over Simon's lips, and Simon thinks he might just float up off the sofa and through the ceiling at the sensation. 

They kiss and kiss, hot and full-mouthed. Time passes. Somehow, Ryan ends up on Simon's lap, knees on either side of Simon's legs, both of them navigating around Sarah, still innocently sleeping against Simon's side. Simon uses his free hand to try and tug Ryan's t-shirt off, wants to touch him all over, right now, the intensity of sensation growing with his high. Ryan gets the message, plucks off his shirt, runs one hot hand up under Simon's shirt and onto his chest, the other pulls at the button of Simon's jeans, and Simon's cock suddenly has something very interesting to think about. 

Simon speaks before he knows what he's going to say. "I can't move. Shit." 

As Ryan sits back, grinning, his mouth red and glistening, rushing to unbuckle and remove his jeans, he says, "You ever buggered a bloke before?" 

There is a rush that runs through every nerve in Simon's body. "Not yet," he manages to reply. 

Then Ryan kneels up, hard bulge in Simon's face, hands warm and demanding pulling at Simon's hair. Simon thinks, _really should get Sarah to move off my arm_ but then he's sucking cock and sky high and he can't really think anything at all anymore.

*****

Simon leaves the ULA safehouse and makes his way to the train station. Stops in a petrol station toilet and reapplies his cover-up and contacts (traveling is still restricted, but he has his forged papers). At the station he buys a ticket north. Every step away from Julian and that last hellish night, the tether that has held him for so long gets looser and looser. Simon can feel a lightness in his tread. Freedom.

The quiet of the train ride makes him pensive. When he thinks about it, his life has been just one long string of leaving home, finding home, and leaving home again. Since he was seventeen years old, he's never settled in one place for longer than a year, never let himself be tied down or rooted to the ground. Hell, he couldn't even stay dead. The only exception is the place he's going now, where he lived for almost three years. The place where he needs to be after all that's happened. Where he can get his feet under him again.

The tiny train station is a couple of miles away from the old farmhouse that serves as the main housing for the commune. Simon walks the whole way there, even in the drizzle and fog. It's a comforting walk, one he's taken dozens of times. 

It's dusk when he arrives, the glow out of the windows shines down to illuminate the gravel drive. Someone has hung up a string of colored fairy lights over the front porch. Simon makes his way to the side door. Knocks three times, then once, then three times more. 

After a moment, the door cracks open, and Simon's quiet heart warms (or at least he imagines it does), at the familiar face peering out. 

"Simon Monroe, you lucky sod. What the hell have you gotten yourself up to?" says the man in the doorway. Simon can just make out his silver hair, his lined brow. "Had you arrived two days past, I would have had to kill you on sight, apparently."

Simon lets his head hang, smiles. "Not anymore, though?"

"Nah, got an email. I suppose I'd've let you live, in any event. Seeing as how I love ye, ye great idiot." The man in the doorway flings it open the rest of the way and envelops Simon in a full-body hug, and Simon practically melts into him. He's only been away for two weeks, but it feels like years. 

"Tom," he says, and holds on. 

"Good to have you back, lad. We missed ye," Tom replies, grabbing Simon's rucksack from him, and helping him off with his coat. "Get all this wet stuff off ye and come in, come in. Let me gather everyone."

"Tom, wait," Simon says, grabbing Tom's woolen sleeve. They're in the little-used kitchen, and it's dark. He's waiting for Tom to ask the hard question, the one he's sure to ask, is shocked he hasn't asked yet. "It's you and Wendy I need to see first. Get her, will ye?"

Tom gives him a look, that wise, knowing look that says he hears more in Simon's words than Simon intended. "Of course, m'boy," Tom says, then looks at him with his intense, white eyes, and asks the question. "Simon, where's our Amy?" 

"Get Wendy, will ye?" Simon says, his voice low, and the sudden droop of Tom's shoulders says that he already suspects what's coming next.

*

Tom and Wendy McGee had one of those love stories featured in feel-good filler at the end of the daily news. Met at a dance as teenagers, married 57 years, three children, eight grandchildren, and died within a month of each other. Rose from the grave together, hunted together, were caught and treated together. Released together to family who were horrified at what they'd become, sent out into the world together to find their own way.

It was the rarely acknowledged truth, especially amongst the treated Undead, that most who'd risen had been old when they died, infirm, elderly. People who'd lived their full lives and said their farewells and died with honor. They'd still been old upon Rising, slow, the easiest for the living to catch and kill, and the vast majority of them had perished a second time during the war, a war between the young living and the old dead. Tom and Wendy had shielded each other; they were two of the lucky ones, some of the oldest survivors. 

Simon had first met them both shortly after he'd become a follower of the Prophet. Early days of the ULA hadn't been much different from Simon's early days in Dublin. Find a street corner with his guitar, sing and play and prosthelytize and try to bring more Undead into the fold. It was dangerous work, back then. Only a few of the Redeemed had been released. There was no policy, no common understanding of how they would be treated, of where they would fit in. He'd been punched, harassed, shot at once. But he'd owed everything to the Prophet back then, and he was ready to die for him, and for his Undead brethren (he'd always been ready to die; it was easy).

The McGees were still wearing full cover-up and contacts the day Simon first saw them, but he knew what they were, that they were his kin. They'd stood and listened to Simon for an hour one afternoon. Then they'd come back the next day, without cover-up, hand-in-hand, to listen some more. 

As Simon packed up, they'd lingered. He'd invited them back to the safehouse with him. It was Wendy McGee who suggested the idea of a sanctuary for the Undead, where they could be themselves, unafraid, work together towards the promise of integration and acceptance. The couple had offered up Wendy's old family farm in the Lake District. The commune was born.

The first few months, Wendy and Tom lived up on the farm, and Simon and a few of the other disciples made it their priority to recruit eager new members and send them up to the commune. After a while, word had spread enough that new followers were finding _them_ , so Simon was able to spend most of his time up at the farm himself, working with the young Undead, the newly released. It was the first time in his life when he'd felt like he belonged somewhere, where he felt needed, appreciated. Sometimes, he'd think about his old self at seventeen, reckless and hopeless, wonder what would have happened to him if he'd met people like Tom and Wendy back then.

It's a pointless exercise. But Simon sometimes wonders if he'd still be alive. And if that would be better, or worse.

*

"She'd come back to life?" Wendy whispers. Tom has his arm around her. None of them can cry, but the need to is an ache in the room. 

"That's what the doctor said," Simon replies. 

"Amy," Tom says quietly.

"Amy," Simon confirms. "I couldn't phone, had to tell you in person."

It's quiet for a long while. They've not lost anyone from the commune, not in three years. "This is all to do with that mess about the second rising, ain't that right?" Tom says.

Simon nods. 

"And you were caught up in that as well?"

Another nod.

"Madness, I say." Tom shakes his head. 

Simon can't argue with that. Just nods his head again. "My mess, Tom. My mission. It's my fault she's gone."

Wendy looks up then, white eyes sharp and keen. "Don't be ridiculous, Simon Monroe. You didn't kill her."

Simon closes his eyes at Wendy's confidence.

"You forget, Simon Monroe, we know you," Wendy continues, stern-voiced, from the crook of Tom's encircling arm. "Whatever the bloody Undead Prophet wanted of you, this commune is where your heart belongs. Equal treatment, fairness under the law, the right to walk free without fear or hatred. That's what you're about. I know, because you're the one taught me to believe. You never gave a care about another Rising, or attacking innocent living souls."

Simon tries to open his mouth to protest. He'd believed in those things, hadn't he? He thinks about his pointless bottle of Blue Oblivion, carried for show, about how easy the knife fell from his fingers. Wendy stops his reverie with a hard stare. "Don't you try to deny it, Simon. You belong to us, not to those extremists. That's what killed Amy, not you. You've just lost your way. But we've kept it here, safe for you to come back and retrieve." 

Wendy reaches out her cold, fragile hand, age-marked and bone-thin, and grabs Simon's hand tight. He hadn't even known he was seeking it, but her wiry grip feels like forgiveness. 

Simon still can't cry, but he thinks he might finally be able to properly mourn. 

*

They gather everyone and break the news. Amy was deeply loved at the commune. It's ugly and painful, watching the reality sink in, the hearts break, and Simon feels every moment of it.

Later, in the sitting room. Tom's built up a fire in the grate (sense memory; it actually makes Simon feel warmer). Wendy's pulled a chair up as well, with her ever-present knitting over her knees. They sit quietly for a long time, Wendy's needles clacking and Simon's mind slowing, settling after the whirlwind.

"Who's this one for, then?" Simon asks at last. The fire is the only light in the room. The other members of the commune have retreated to sleep or to conduct their mourning elsewhere, and it is very late. Simon knows Wendy will stay up all night with him if he needs. He's seen her do it many times before, for others. 

Wendy shakes out the wool so that Simon can see the shape of the jumper emerging from her needles. "Mai Lin."

"She'll like the purple."

"She will."

It's quiet again. The fire pops. Tom let's out a single snore from where he's fallen asleep on the sofa. 

"I've met someone." Simon says it very softly. Speaking it aloud feels dangerous, essential. 

Wendy's eyebrows rise, but her stitches don't falter. "Have you?"

"Amy spoke of him, her friend in Roarton."

"Kieren, was it? The one she was always writing to. That one?" 

"Yeah." Simon breathes out the word, his whole body melting into the unexpected pleasure of telling someone.

"Well, that's lovely news," Wendy says, in her practical lilt.

"Can't be here long. I promised I'd get back."

"To him?" She looks up then, her eyes twinkling in the firelight.

Simon lets a brief smile escape. "Think I'll stay in Roarton for now."

"Ah. I see." 

"He's remarkable, Wendy." Simon imagines Kieren rolling his eyes at him, but that only makes him smile again.

Wendy pats Simon's knee. "Well, he'd have to be, now wouldn't he," she says, bending down to change out her yarn.

It falls quiet again. It all feels real, now, suddenly. Julian. Amy. Kieren. Simon lets the smile slowly drift off his face, closes his eyes. Christ, he misses his mum.

*

The members of the commune hold an impromptu wake for Amy the next evening. Candles and silly stories, then solemn ones. There are songs, and poems. Simon stays, listens, but sits in the back, quiet. This is not his home anymore, he knows that now, and he's had his chance to say his farewell to Amy already. 

As soon as he can respectfully manage, he sneaks away to his old room. Leaves another message on the Walker's voicemail, that he'll be arriving the next day, late train. 

Finding home, leaving home, finding home again. 

*


	5. The Dancer

When Kieren Walker is sixteen, he thinks kissing his friend Rick will change things, and it does, changes everything. But it also changes nothing. 

The morning after, Kieren's heart is a hammer, wondering how they will negotiate this transformation between them. Surely everyone will be able to see. Kieren is equal parts afraid and giddy at the prospect. No more secrets. 

At school, Kieren has eyes for no one but Rick, finally spots him, smiles (feels like he's floating, for a moment). But Rick just gives Kieren the usual nod and smile from amongst his gang of football cronies as they walk by him at the entryway. Later, he finds Kieren in the corridor on the way to their history lesson, chucks him on the shoulder (a little too hard today, Kieren winces and rubs at his muscle, walks a pace back to maintain a larger space between them). Still later, he shouts over his shoulder at Kieren that he'll phone him later as his crowd hustles him out after classes; doesn't wait for a reply. 

As usual. Like any other day.

By the time he's home, Kieren's skin is hot and itchy with anger. 

He's only been home a few minutes, sitting stiffly on the edge of his bed, spinning in his own thoughts, when he hears the knock at the door, distant voices, then, "Kier! Rick's comin' up!" shouted by Jem. Heavy footfall on the stairs. Shit.

Rick's face appears around the edge of the door, his expression searching. "Hey?" he says.

Kieren's anger starts to dissipate almost immediately at Rick's soft tone. "Hey."

"You okay?" Rick steps into Kieren's room, shuts the door behind him.

Kieren looks down at his own hands, clasped tight in his lap. "Not sure."

"Yeah?" Rick drops his school bag next to Kieren's desk and sits down next to him. 

Kieren resettles himself on the bed, making more space between his knee and Rick's, trying to calm his heart. "I just thought it would be...different."

Rick looks genuinely baffled. "What would?"

"Us."

"Isn't it?"

"Not that I can tell."

Rick leans forward, eyes searching. "You mean...at school?"

"Yeah." 

"What did you expect to happen?" Rick asks. He sounds as if he's truly asking.

Kieren opens his mouth to answer, then realises he doesn't have a reply. What _did_ he think would happen, anyway? A dramatic kiss in the corridor? A declaration over the public address? Kieren's anger settles into a worried sense that he may have overreacted. 

"Ren. I...you know me dad. And mates. I'll sort it, I will, I promise. Eventually. But, Christ, I don't even know where to start, it's all so fucked." Rick reaches out and grasps Kieren's hand in his own. A deep thrum hums through Kieren's body at the touch. "I'm shite at all this, Ren, but...I was thinking about ye. All bloody day." Rick squeezes Kieren's hand, hard.

The last of Kieren's anger melts out of him, meeting Rick's gaze. After a long moment, Kieren leans in and kisses Rick's cheek. It's a bit rough (Rick has started shaving already, has a light dusting of stubble). When Kieren pulls away, Rick smiles his crooked smile and knocks him gently on the shoulder, pressing in against Kieren's side. They sit together for a moment, quiet in their thoughts.

Then the moment dissolves. Rick lets Kieren go, then flops back on Kieren's pillows with a sigh, starts muttering about his science class, settling in like he belongs there. 

After that, it's the usual nods and shoulder jabs and casual friendship between the jock and the art kid, but Kieren knows now, it's just a performance. It's like a secret dance between them; Kieren feels the tempo now, learns his role, his next move, just how close to stand, how long to linger before moving off again. It's worth it, he thinks, because the final act always takes them back to the cave eventually, and he's learning the moves there as well. 

It's a complicated dance, but Kieren masters all of the steps. 

*****

Kieren offers to take lunch down to Jem at the gaol the next afternoon. Sue reported the night before that Constable Shah had gladly accepted the homemade supper (both for Jem, and for herself; she's only just moved to Roarton, not much food in yet, apparently), so she packs some sandwiches this time. Kieren's night was long, he needs a distraction. The relief of hearing Simon's phone message has been tempered by the strain Kieren could hear in his tone. He'd spent the quiet hours letting his brain spin on what Simon might be facing, on his own. 

Kieren's always had a very creative brain.

Rethi Shah is sitting at her big wooden desk, sorting through a towering stack of files, when Kieren walks in. 

"Kieren, is it?" she asks with a friendly smile. "Ms. Walker's brother?" Constable Shah is a big woman, taller than Kieren, with broad shoulders. Her thick hair hangs in a long braid that she flings back and forth over her shoulders as she talks. 

"Yeah. Brought down sandwiches for her. And you, if you would like." Kieren feels rather sheepish, handing over the bag, but the constable takes it eagerly.

"Your mum is a peach! I'm famished," she says, sorting the wrapped sandwiches on her desk and selecting one to keep. She upwraps it and takes a huge bite. Kieren looks on, unsure what's next. 

"Can I visit with Jem now?" he asks.

With her mouth full, Rethi Shah says, "I'll take you back." Then she swallows her bite and gives Kieren a shrewd look, up and down. "You're PDS, ain't ye?"

Kieren nods. It's a ridiculous question, as Kieren is standing in front of her bare faced and without his contacts, but somehow, when she asks, it doesn't sound like a threat or a judgment. She sounds almost...impressed? "I am."

"Good to know. You let me know if anyone gives you any hassle, right? My uncle's PDS, and I won't stand for any of that." She takes another enormous bite, and somehow manages to chew while she smiles at him. 

Kieren smiles back. He wishes he could believe her. 

"Let's go see your sister." 

There are two little cells in the rear of the police station. Rethi Shah uses her imposing key ring to open up one of the doors and invites Jem out with a nod of her head. 

Jem darts out the door and runs to Kieren, wraps her arms around him and squeezes so hard Kieren can almost feel it. 

"She'll be transferred up to the city tomorrow," Constable Shah says, as if they'd asked. "After she's formally charged she can post bail and return home. At least until the sentencing."

Kieren pets at Jem's head, but she doesn't loosen her grip. "Thanks," he replies. 

*

Jem hardly touches her sandwich, hardly talks. Kieren fills in the empty spaces with whatever innocuous blather he can think up: the details of his win against Philip in Risk, his struggles with his new drawings, how he'd taken an actual bite of toast and jam at breakfast and had to run to the toilet to spit it out before he was sick. She picks at her food and nods occasionally. 

"You still glad to be doing this?" Kieren whispers, after a long pause in which he can't think of a single other thing to say.

Jem looks up. Her eye's are red-rimmed and tired. Kieren peeped into her cell just long enough to glimpse a thin mattress on a cot, not much else. 

"Of course," she says. "But there's not exactly luxury accommodations." Kieren knows she's putting up a front for his benefit. 

Constable Shah returns after a few more minutes. ("You sure you're all right, Jem?" "I just need a lie-down, Kier.")

As they walk back, a face appears in the barred window of the second cell. Kieren's entire body stiffens. Gary. He's being charged as well. Somehow, Kieren had forgotten. 

"Hey," Gary says, casual and calm, as if Kieren's his old chum and might just want to have a chat.

"Don't talk to me, Gary. Jesus." Kieren turns his back. Rethi Shah is fighting with the lock on Jem's cell and ignoring them. 

"It's nice, you comin' to visit Jem," Gary continues, in this aggravating, conversational tone that sends fingers of ice down Kieren's already icy spine. 

"Seriously. Just shut up and leave me alone," Kieren says over his shoulder. There is a ghosting sensation through his veins, a reminder of the terror of the Blue Oblivion Gary had dosed him with. He closes his eyes and shivers the feeling away. 

"Fuck. Can't a bloke even try?"

Jem turns now, even though her elbow is firmly in the grip of Constable Shah. "Give it up, Gary."

"I was only ever trying to protect you and protect this town, Jem. Why is that so hard to believe?" Gary's face is pressed between the bars, as if he's trying to get through. 

Kieren looks at Jem who is staring at Gary, her gaze hard and cold. "You gave me the bracelet Henry made for me, Gaz. That's sick."

"I was crazy about ye, Jem. I can't do...lovey shite. Handicrafts. How was I supposed to prove it to you? More than everything I done?"

Kieren snorts. "Yeah, nothing says I love you like disposing of a dead body for your girl, then trying to kill her brother." He means to mutter to himself, but it comes out loud and clear.

"Kier," Jem says, warning in her tone.

"Sorry."

"Fuck off, the both of ye." That's Gary, retreating back to the far end of his cell and dropping onto his cot with one arm over his face.

"Well, that's quite enough of that," says Rethi Shah, finally getting the key to turn and opening the door to Jem's cell. "In you go, miss."

Jem doesn't hug Kieren before she goes, but she does chuck him hard on the shoulder. 

"Yeah, same to you, sis," he says, and then the cell door shuts with a loud and final clang.

*

Kieren stops by the Wilson's house on his way home, as promised. (He's hoping he and Philip can spend an hour or two on the old Playstation, another favorite from their past. He needs it.) Shirley greets him with her usual harried bustle at the door. When she sees Kieren she sags against the door frame, and Kieren realises she's looking worryingly serious and pale. 

"Oh Kieren, thank god. Is Philip with you?" 

"No. I was coming by to see him now, actually," Kieren says. He digs his hands into his pockets. 

"Shit." Shirley brings her hand up and rubs her eyes for a moment. "I don't know where he's gone. He's taken the car. I'm trying not to panic. Failing."

Kieren nods, a sudden, sick bubbling in his gut. It's not good, Philip running off without telling anyone where he's gone. Kieren remembers that vacant stare. 

"I've walked to the cemetery and the Legion. No sign. I was coming to you next."

"I'll go look for him, Shirley," Kieren has already turned, thinking of all the places Philip might be. "Why don't you stay here in case he returns home?"

"Thanks, Kieren," Shirley calls after him. "You're a gem."

*

Kieren takes a full circuit of Roarton, on the lookout for Shirley's Honda or, even better, a glimpse of Philip himself. He even checks up at the cave, just because, well, it's where he would have gone himself. There's no sign of him anywhere. He returns to Shirley and asks her to phone if she gets any word. She's grim, her mouth a thin line, as she shuts the door. 

Kieren makes his final stop Amy's grave, just in case Philip's returned there now, but it's quiet, no sign of fresh footprints, soil undisturbed. Kieren has a seat. He hasn't had a chance to talk to her yet, since she's been gone.

"Hey, partner," he starts, then his voice chokes, and he can't get the next words out.

He sits there for a long time. He wants to tell Amy how much he misses her, how sorry he is that they never really got to talk about Simon. Or Philip. He needs to tell her how right it feels to kiss Simon, that he couldn't stop himself it felt so right; he is desperate for that chance. He wants to tell her how much he needs her back, how much Philip misses her, how he can't take one more hole in his life. That he's trying not to be angry with her for being gone. 

There's too much to say, so he just sits silently with her in the thin afternoon light, until even he starts to feel the cold seeping into his bones. He rises to keep on walking.

*

Kieren can't bring himself to go home; too many things not being said, too much up in the air, too much that's too hard. There's only one place he actually wants to be at this moment, but he can't be there, not yet. 

Simon's train isn't due for a few hours. He settles in on a bench on the train platform. 

His hand starts shaking, a steady tremor that he stops with a shake and rub. He closes his eyes and leans back to wait.

*

Kieren tries to stay seated when the train pulls in ( _sit down, fool, you hardly know him, you're just here so he has someone to greet him_ ), but he can't, he stands, and watches the moving silhouettes in the carriages.

He finally spots Simon, far down the platform, amongst the commuters and visitors walking towards him, head down and shoulders slumped, his rucksack hanging off of him like moss. Kieren feels a shudder in his chest, a shiver through his body, just for a moment, wonders what that means; it's different than with Rick. Electric. In his skin.

Simon looks up then, sees Kieren. Kieren wants to walk to him (run), but instead he jams his hands deep in his pockets, the move coming back to him without conscious thought. The platform is bustling with familiar faces. A few greet him with a nod (Mr. Thomas, the counselor from the high school, Lee from the _Save 'n Shop_ ). Kieren smiles back, stays put. He knows this dance. 

Simon looks tired, but he raises his eyebrows when he sees Kieren, gets this little crooked smile, and walks straight at him without hesitation, his pace quickening. The shiver passes across Kieren's skin again. Jesus.

Kieren expects the next move to be a handshake, so he pulls one hand out of its protective pocket and gives a little wave, and Simon walks even faster. Kieren holds out his hand, and then Simon is right there (god, right there, it's only been a few days), grabbing it tight, and pulling Kieren in to an embrace, a full body hug that Kieren needs so much it hurts. 

"Kieren." So soft, whispered into his ear. 

Kieren is at a loss, people are still walking past, the train still sitting at the station. He pats Simon's back and says, "Welcome home, Simon," in a voice that sounds far too loud. His entire body feels heated (that can't be). 

Simon leans back, his face questioning. He's wearing his contacts and a thin, messy layer of cover-up. Wherever he's come from he must not have been too concerned for his travel safety. His hand drifts up from Kieren's back and rests along Kieren's jaw, Kieren can feel it like fire.

"You have no idea how glad I am to see ye," Simon says, and then he leans in and kisses Kieren, right there on the train platform, while the train starts its gentle roll away from the platform, and Kieren's neighbors glance over and walk on. 

The world shifts, just a little, and then rights itself again. Simon pulls away but doesn't let go, his gaze never leaving Kieren's face, and Kieren isn't sure what's real for a moment. 

"Nah. I have some idea," he manages to say, and then, because suddenly, miraculously, he can (and fuck the dance, he thinks; he could've all along), he kisses Simon right back. 

*


	6. The Lover

When Simon Monroe is twenty-one, he meets his true love. 

He first falls for New York City when he is eight and sees _Big_ at his friend Jim's house on a sleepover. For the next three years, he fantasizes living in his own glorious loft full of toys, confident in the thought that _then I would never be sad_. He starts to notice the city as it appears in films he sees: _Ghostbusters_ and _Miracle on 34th Street_ and _King Kong_.

Then, when he is thirteen, the true love affair begins. His mum rents an old favorite of hers, _Desperately Seeking Susan_ , while his dad is away on a writing retreat, and Simon can't get enough of it. He watches it over and over: the Magic Club and the seedy glamour, the underground club scene, grimy artists' lofts and film collections, the grungy Chinese take-out, and sex (and Aidan Quinn). He makes his mother rent it again and again. It's the New York of his fantasies. Even when he gets older, developing a preference for disaster movies that destroy the city (he's partial to _The Day After Tomorrow_ ), dystopias ( _Escape from New York_ ), even grown-up fodder like _Annie Hall_ or _Goodfellas_ or _Rosemary's Baby_ , he knows that these are not the real New York. The real New York is where Rosanna Arquette can simply buy a jacket, and transform. It's magic, the real New York, and Simon needs some magic.

He's been clean for three weeks when he makes the trip. 

He steps off the aeroplane and into the solid, soupy heat of mid-summer New York City with more hope than he's ever had in his life. His pal Dara is waiting in Hell's Kitchen, with a temporary job lined up for him and a sofa for him to crash on (she's been off junk for two months; they can hold each other up). 

He takes the bus to the Port Authority, just because he can, because there's magic there. 

He's going to be new in New York. No more sadness. No more shit. Cured. 

*****

Simon doesn't let go of Kieren's hand all the way through Roarton. Can't, really. He's too fucking relieved that he's made it back to do anything that might disrupt this moment. Coming home. 

They don't talk on their walk back from the train, but Simon sneaks a fair number of looks Kieren's way. Kieren's eyes are directed to the ground, mostly, or out into space. But he holds onto Simon's hand tight and never makes to let go.

Simon thinks about his first day in New York, the giddy high of just being there, walking into his own fantasy. He's been fantasizing about returning to Roarton for days, now, but it's not the same. Simon knows what he's walking into this time.

They are only a few steps inside the bungalow when the swelling ache in Simon's chest releases. His hands rise of their own accord, cradle Kieren's face (he's remembered it just a little bit wrong, already; he's even more beautiful that Simon recalls). Simon backs him up against the door and doesn't even have to lean in, because Kieren's lips are right there, he's grabbing just as hard at Simon's waist, and then they are kissing, and kissing, and kissing.

Simon hasn't just _kissed_ someone since he... well, never really. He'd rocketed into sex as a teenager, skipping any introductory phases. He's not even sure what he skipped, except that he's sure this thing with Kieren, where he just wants to kiss him and touch him for hours, is something he's never experienced before. It could be that the rest of his body doesn't work like it used to, or it could be Kieren, or it could be him, Simon's not sure. Doesn't care really, so long as this doesn't stop.

They push and pull each other along the walls and through the sitting room until they are comfortably curled around each other on the sofa, still kissing. Time loses meaning for a while, and the last few shit days fade into a blurry after-image of memory. Simon's fingers get lost in Kieren's hair; the slow, thick sludge in his nerves has time to catch up for a moment, to feel the soft, insistent press of Kieren's lips against his own. 

It can't last though. Simon is snapped back to the present by Kieren, whose fingers find the raw and ripped flesh at his wrist where Julian's shackles bit into him as he struggled. Kieren pulls away, exploring the odd, bloodless wound. Simon can see the worried crease between his brows. 

Kieren doesn't release his wrist, but looks up. "Where did you go?"

Simon runs through what he can possibly say to that. God, he wants to tell him everything (all in the open, no secrets), wants to tell him nothing (all in the past, a fresh start). He says the only thing that he can form into words. 

"Went up to the commune. Told them about Amy."

Kieren's thumb starts a gentle stroke on the back of Simon's hand, and Christ, he can feel it, completely, like he's a living man. "Shit. Sorry."

"Owed it to them to come in person. She had a lot of people there who loved her."

The worried crease has only deepened. "Why didn't ye tell me? I'd've come along with you. You didn't have to do that alone."

Kieren says the words so casually, as if they are the most obvious thing in the world, but Simon can't speak for a moment. He'd never even considered asking Kieren; it never crossed his mind that Kieren might agree to come with him, be there for him. (He's been so preoccupied with his own adoration of Kieren, Simon realizes he hasn't wondered if Kieren might actually feel something back.)

"You'd have done that?" he says at last. 

Kieren gives him a look that is perilously close to an eyeroll, and says, "Of course."

"I didn't know that."

"Well, pay more attention," Kieren says with a little smirk, and then he's kissing him again, and Simon can't believe that this miracle is happening to him.

They kiss for a long time again, slow and careful. Kieren seems to love the skin of Simon's throat, his lips keep dipping down below his ear, along his collar, before returning back to his mouth. Simon can't get enough of touching Kieren's face, keeps his eyes open as much as he can so he doesn't miss anything. 

Kieren breaks off again, gaze probing. Says, "Hang on. You said you were going to the city."

Simon can't do it anymore, can't hide. He's the one people talk to, not the one who talks, but Kieren turns everything on its head, topsy-turvy. "I did. I went there, first. I had to settle a...misunderstanding."

Kieren's hands are gripping Simon at the hips, his words halting. His eyes flicker to Simon's wrist. "Did you...are you really alright?"

Simon cups Kieren's face in his hands again, meets his eyes (beautiful eyes, so clear). "Yes. Now."

"But you were in trouble?" 

"I was."

"And now you're safe?"

Simon thinks hard before he says, "I believe so." Then, after a pause that is full of unasked questions (knows he owes Kieren so much more than what he's giving), Simon continues. "I don't call myself Disciple any longer."

Kieren's face is pensive. Simon imagines he's attempting to sort out what Simon is trying (failing) to say. "Is that your choice?" he asks, after a while.

"Yes, it is." _It is._

Kieren leans in and kisses him, very soft. "Simon's better. Disciple Monroe is such a mouthful." He smiles, and kisses Simon again. 

Simon's whole system is overwhelmed, the sheer magic of Kieren's casual forgiveness, the way he can laugh about it all, keep a lightness to even Simon's dreariest of announcements. He's not worthy of this. There's too much that Kieren doesn't know, horrors and mistakes, a lifetime of them. His mind and his mouth escape him for a moment, overtaken by the sheer need to tell Kieren _everything_ , all at once; see if he can truly be forgiven.

"I killed my mother." Simon hears himself say the words, as if from very far away.

Everything stops still for a moment (feels like an hour). Kieren doesn't let him go. Says (confused), "While you were away?"

"No. Before. Then. I don't actually remember. But." The words come out it little spurts. Simon can't look at Kieren, but he can see where Kieren's hands are still gripping his hips. Saying it out loud is like the release of an anchor that has been holding him steady, but trapped. Terror and freedom. He's never told anyone before, not even during his deepest loyalty to the ULA. 

"Shit." 

They just sit there for a long time. Simon feels like he's floating. 

"What was her name?" Kieren asks, finally, breaking the spell. 

It's so unexpected that Simon can't think of the answer for a moment. "Her name?" 

Kieren adjusts on the sofa, sitting back as is settling in to stay. "Yeah."

Simon closes his eyes. "Feryn." _Mum._ He hasn't said her name in years.

"What was she like?"

Simon thinks a moment (pictures the stubborn, patient woman who never gave up on him), and the shame is overwhelming. Shakes his head ( _Can't_ ). "I don't think about her."

"That doesn't help, though, does it?" Kieren asks, his hands still on Simon's knees. "Never worked for any of the ones I killed." ( _That's right. Kieren's killed people, too._ )

Simon settles back on the sofa, still free-floating. Kieren's hand darts over and grips his, holds him down. They sit side by side, holding hands, and Simon lets himself sink into thoughts of his mum ( _how did this happen? how does Kieren do this?_ ). Then the words just come.

"She always had some project going that was going to save the world. Dad, he's a poet, always in his own head, not an easy guy to talk to. Mum, though. She had _ideas_. We moved into Gran's old house, she started this business making and selling homemade soaps and lotions, all natural, you know. She was like that, always making somethin'."

Simon looks up at Kieren long enough to see he's quietly listening, and watching. "Yeah?"

"She was a writer, too, but never focused on it, like Dad. She lived in the world, I suppose, while Dad wanted to stay above it. He'd always go along with her big notions, though. She moved us to an organic farm for three years when I was eight. Jesus. Sheep and turnips. I was miserable, of course, but I know now that had nothing to do with the farm. Or mum."

Kieren's thoughtfully listening, but he adds a quiet, "You lived on a farm?"

"Yeah, it was this sort of communal thing. Near Cork."

"Like, a commune?" 

There's something in Kieren's tone, a flat, amused undercurrent that Simon's just learning to pick out, but Simon suspects he's being teased. "What?"

"Just to clarify. Your dad's a moody poet and your mum moved you to an organic farming commune before starting her all-natural soap business?"

Simon considers for a moment. "Sounds more interesting than it was. I just wanted to go to New York."

Kieren's grinning, then laughing (laughing; it's the best sound Simon's ever heard), then says, without preamble, "I'd like to take your clothes off." 

"Now?"

"Yes," Kieren says, his hands already reaching for the hem of Simon's jumper. "Best time for it really. Don't know if I can take an anecdote about the simple joys of working the earth." 

"You bastard." But Simon is laughing then too (Laughing.) and dashing after Kieren, who's made an escape of sorts towards the bedroom. He's not too hard to catch, though, and then they are kissing again, and pulling at clothes, and laughing against each others' mouths and Simon considers that this is probably the best day of his life.

*

The sex is different too, when they get to it. Maybe it's because they've warmed up their nerves with hours of foreplay, but when Kieren has finally managed to remove all traces of clothing from both of them, they both have the subtlest, most thrilling evidence of arousal Simon has ever experienced (a subtle thickening of cocks, just the merest hint). When Kieren leans down and takes Simon in his mouth (never done that before, what was the point?; today there seems to be a point), it's not just sense memory this time, that real sensation is there, warm trails of fire along Simon's skin, all the more potent for being forgotten. 

When Simon reciprocates, tracing paths with his mouth down Kieren's smooth, pale skin, he discovers Kieren is half-hard. Coming seems impossible (not that Simon doesn't try), but something intense flows through Kieren anyway; he shouts and talks nonsense and when they start to come down, it's almost (almost) like they've fucked. 

It feels like a first time.

*

The bed is tiny, so they tuck up tight against each other, to breathe. 

"You know, I fucked a lot of men when I was alive," Simon says to the darkness, the urge to confess still strong. He looks over at Kieren.

Kieren leans up on his elbow, brows pinched together, a little frown playing across his lips. "This your idea of sexy pillow talk? Because it could really use some work."

"No. No. It's just..." Simon can't get his words to line up, this feels too important to say wrong. "All that time, I never just laid down with any of 'em, you know. I was never just...with them."

"Oh?" Kieren pulls himself over until his entire body is draped on top of Simon's, sending vague feathery shivers through Simon's skin. His memory supplies the weight, the heat, the feel of skin against his own. He tucks his face against the curve of Simon's neck, covering him like a blanket.

"So, what do you think?" Kieren whispers into him. 

"Could get used to this." Simon lets his arms wrap hard around Kieren's back, holding on.

*


	7. The Brother

When Kieren Walker is sixteen, he gets caught out for the first time.

His sister, Jem, is twelve: skinny and nosy and trying on teenage rebellion a year early (which may be Kieren's fault, but he's not saying). She has no sense of personal space, nothing she won't willingly pry into, no door she won't open. She's a nightmare. 

She walks in on Kieren giving Rick a hand-job one afternoon, just after school. 

They'd taken to having a quick go before starting homework, lying side by side on Kieren's bed and taking turns bringing each other off (except for the one day when they did it at the same time, and it was fucking _glorious_ , but then Kieren had leaned in to kiss Rick, and Rick had dodged away, and they'd never tried that again). So when Jem walks in, Kieren's hand is down Rick's pants, his flies undone, and Rick's head is thrown back against Kieren's pillows. 

Rick is a star footballer and martial artist, but Kieren's never seen him move more quickly, tucking in and swinging his legs over the far side of the bed so that Jem can't see anything more. Kieren feels rather frozen, himself, kneeling on the mussed covers, staring at his sister in the hopes that if he looks hard enough she'll just disappear. 

Jem's face is red and mystified, her big eyes huge. He has a sudden memory of her, when she was seven years old and had broken one of their mum's masks, that same look of awed panic. She whispers, "Never mind," then turns and walks back out, shutting the door hard behind her. 

"I've got to go," Rick says, jumping off the bed as soon as she is gone, before Kieren can even turn towards him. He's zipping up and grabbing his school bag, and doesn't even look at Kieren. 

"Rick, it'll be alright. I'll talk to her."

"Whatever."

"I'll work it out."

"Do what you like. I'll see you tomorrow," Rick says, as he slams Kieren's door and stomps down the stairs. Kieren can hear his mum shout a surprised farewell from the kitchen. 

It's an abrupt transition from arousal and cock-in-hand to being alone and fretful in the space of thirty seconds. Kieren sits still, lets the last of his stubborn erection wilt away through neglect. Then he tromps to the bathroom, washes up (hands, face, almost decides to take a full shower), sighs at himself in the mirror, then heads down the corridor to Jem's room. 

Knocks. "Jem, let me in."

"Go away!" Through the door. Her music is on, loud. 

"If you just walk into mine, I'll just walk into yours," Kieren responds. 

"Can't you read?" Jem has tacked a hand-lettered sign, black pen dripping with red marker blood, _No Admittance on Pain of DEATH_ , on her door. 

Kieren ignores her and turns the knob. She glares at him from her bed, where she's reclined, pretending to read something. Music pounds the air around them, so Kieren has to shout, "Can't you knock?" He comes through and shuts the door behind him. 

Jem ignores him, emphatically goes back to her reading. Kieren stands there for a moment, then crosses the room and shuts off Jem's stereo. 

"Hey!"

Kieren takes a seat on the edge of the bed. She grabs a pillow and curls up around it, so that no part of her touches Kieren. She looks so young, all of a sudden. His little sister. Kieren can't even be angry.

"Sorry about it," he says. 

Jem's face is pinched tight, but Kieren can see she's thinking things over. Eyes fixed on the bedspread, she finally asks, "Why were you doing that?" 

Kieren sighs, considers what to say. He's never tried to explain himself to anyone before; it's terrifying. "You know about… well..." He tries some hand gestures, but that doesn't help.

"Sex?" Jem interjects. "Yeah, dummy. They make us take that class."

Kieren remembers (diagrams and models and Ms. Arnold saying "scrotum" repeatedly; how could he ever forget). "That class is shit, little sis. They don't tell you anything."

"So now you're some sort of expert?"

"Nah. Just. You try things. See what feels good. That's what they don't tell ye. It feels good."

Jem wrinkles her nose and makes a face, but she also releases her hold on her pillow and turns toward Kieren. "So. Rick is your… boyfriend?"

"I don't know," Kieren says, then thinks a moment. "Maybe. Yeah, probably."

Jem seems to be considering this for a moment, then she says, "Alright." 

"But no one else knows, Jem. You got that. No one can. It would be… bad." Kieren imagines Rick's dad, about how Rick's not even supposed come over here after school, much less be getting rubbed off or calling himself "boyfriend."

"I won't tell, Kier." Jem's little face is serious, but then her nose wrinkles up again. "I don't even want to think about it. Ugh."

Kieren grabs the pillow from her lap and whacks her with it as he rises. "Thanks, Jem."

"We gotta stick together, eh?" She curls back around her pillow.

Kieren nods and then goes over to Jem's stereo and starts the music again. "I'll make you a new mix. You play this one too much."

"Promise me mum will hate everything about it?" Jem yells back over the noise, grinning, still reclined on her bed. 

"Promise." Kieren smiles back at his sister. She's a good egg, even when she's impossible. Jem.

*****

For a few days after Simon's return to Roarton, things seem to almost be settling into a routine. Kieren sleeps over at the bungalow most nights, practicing the growing intimacy he's discovering with Simon (so different from Rick, who never did kiss on the mouth, even after three years). His parents very clearly want to know nothing more about it; they do not ask or comment beyond wondering if he is planning to be home for supper each night. Kieren suspects he appears happier than he has since he's returned, so they're staying out of it, afraid to upset the delicate balance. 

They don't say it out loud again, but Kieren knows that he and Simon have made a silent pact to actually get to know each other better, now. Less drama, less urgency, less philosophy. After Give Back each day, they sit together and talk. Kieren brings Simon over to his house and shows him his room, his drawings and paintings. They'd been there for him to see when Simon had come for lunch, before, but there's an intention to look round this time. Kieren tells Simon more about Rick (the good stuff, mostly). Simon tells him more about his family, in fits and starts, about some of his old friends, his years in New York. Kieren suspects neither of them are sharing any more of the hard stuff yet (knows they both have it), but that's alright. It feels like they might have time. 

*

Four days after Simon's return, it's Christmas Eve. Kieren and Simon decide to spend the afternoon apart (plans for gifts are underway). Kieren goes home. He packs a little bag of necessities (very few needed anymore, but still) to keep at the bungalow, wants to watch a film with his dad. Needs to finish a little painting for Simon, and a set of notecards for his mum. 

Jem's been transported to the city to be held until her sentencing. They sent her off with a holiday care package, but it still feels awful. The door to her room at the end of the corridor is always open now, unheard of when she was home. Kieren closes it whenever he sees it, but it always ends up open again. 

A knock at the door interrupts their quiet supper (Kieren is amazed to see his mum has not given him a plate, for once; he just sits). Sue rises to answer it. Kieren can hear raised voices.

"Kieren! It's Philip!" Sue calls. Kieren's eyes meet his dad's and they both hop up and dash to the door.

Shirley Wilson has been by every day. Kieren and Simon have taken several tours of the town and woods, keeping a keen eye out. The police still had no leads, but here he is now, swaying in the doorway and nodding a greeting.

"Phil. Where've you been?" Kieren asks.

Philip looks fine, just tired, and behind him Kieren can see Shirley's Honda parked neatly in the Walker's drive. "I went to find Amy. If they'd taken her."

"Come in, Phil," Kieren says, while Sue rushes off to make tea ("I'll phone your mum, sweetheart"), dragging Steve with her. Once he has Philip settled on the sofa, Kieren says, "Tell me where again?"

"I went to Norfolk."

The treatment center. "Jesus, Philip. How the hell did you get in there?" 

"Just drove up. Nice there, really. I went back day after day and waited. Thought I'd find someone who knew about Amy."

_Nice?_ Not really Norfolk, then. "Oh, that place. That place is just for families." (His dad glances over at that). "They wouldn't take her there, Phil." 

"No, no. I found a nurse who remembered her, from when she was there the first time." The skin below Philip's eyes is dark, he clearly hasn't slept. 

Sue brings out tea and sets it in front of Philip. "Your mum's on the way. She's been frantic."

Philip runs his hand through his hair. "Yeah, sorry. I didn't mean to cause any trouble."

"Well, I'm afraid you failed on that account, young man," says Steve. "We were all desperately worried."

This pronouncement seems to snap Philip into consciousness, into the sitting room with them for a moment. He looks beyond exhausted, like he could collapse onto the sofa and sleep for three days. 

"Why don't you get home and rest?" Kieren suggests. "I'll come by after Christmas and you can tell me everything, alright? I promised I'll help you, and I will."

"Is it Christmas?" Philip says, and then his face crumples and he starts to cry. 

When Shirley bounds in, pouring relief ("It's a bloody holiday miracle!"). She takes one look at her son and gathers him into her arms. 

*

Christmas Day. Kieren startles awake in Simon's bed, sensation like an electric rush through his bones. Every cell in his body can feel Simon pressed against him: his cool skin, and the roughness of his body hair, and the curl of his leg around his own. It's feeling, true sensation, totally overwhelming after so long. Kieren closes his eyes so he can focus on every inch of touch. But then a tremor starts in his hand, and the next thing he remembers, Simon is leaning over him on the floor. 

"Thank Christ. There you are," Simon says, and kisses him (and the sensation is gone, back to the frustrating numb).

"What happened?"

"Dunno. Woke up and you were on the floor." 

"I'm alright now," Kieren says, letting Simon pull him up, and then, because Simon is naked and he can, Kieren shifts their momentum so that they tumble back onto the bed, and he quickly manages to not worry about what might have happened to him.

*

"So, are you ever going to tell me what's happened with your sister?" Simon asks.

He is sitting, contemplative, in the darkening sitting room of the bungalow. They've returned together after exchanging Christmas gifts at Kieren's house (painting of Amy for Simon, oil pastels and a hand-knit jumper for Kieren). Kieren is sketching him. 

"Haven't I?" Kieren's been avoiding this.

"You said she was in trouble. I haven't seen her once since I've been back, and she was hardly mentioned at your family Christmas."

Kieren sighs, looks up from his work. "You won't like it."

"Why don't you try me."

In the dimming light, Kieren considers that he might fall in love with Simon. It's a rush and a panicked terror, all at once. He closes his sketch pad, sets down his pastels, and tells Simon everything. Jem's nightmares and how she'd taken the gun and accidentally shot Henry Lonsdale, thinking he was untreated. The cover-up, Gary and Maxine, everything. Even the bracelet. Simon is quiet and still as he talks, just listening.

"Her hearing is in the city, day after tomorrow. Then we'll know."

"She asked you for help?" Simon's voice is very deep in the darkness.

"She wanted to own up to what she'd done," Kieren says, then adds, "and, yes, she needs help, Simon. She's just a kid."

"Henry Lonsdale was a kid, too." 

"Yeah. I know." Kieren feels a churning in his gut, thinks back to the first time he met Simon, in the graveyard, his passionate fury over the treatment of PDS victims. Christ. He hadn't wanted to tell Simon any of this. 

Simon rises; Kieren can see his broad shadow moving across the room. It's almost completely dark now. Simon reaches out a white hand, and Kieren grabs on, let's himself be pulled up, unsure what to expect. Then Simon cradles his face in his hands, and kisses him. "I'll come with you, if you want."

"To the hearing?"

"Mmm-hmm..." Simon hums agreement against Kieren's lips. "I'm so sorry you've had to face all this alone."

Kieren lets himself lean into Simon's sturdy frame, wishing away the sick nagging sense that this moment is just a calm in their storm. 

*

The court is little more than an office. There aren't enough chairs, so Kieren and Simon stand at the back against a huge bulletin board of notices. The judge hardly seems to glance at the paperwork in front of him before he passes sentence: guilty of the partial manslaughter of Henry Lonsdale, six months in detention, followed by two years work with the Give Back Scheme. New concept, he explains. Eliminate prejudice by having those convicted work directly with PDS sufferers. Give back themselves. 

Jem sits and listens, looking like a stranger in her shapeless jumpsuit. Kieren can hear his mum quietly crying. Simon stands next to him like a statue as the judge drones out the final details. 

They're allowed to hug Jem and say goodbye before she's led away. "Still glad you're doing this?" Kieren whispers, but Jem just hugs him harder, with all her strength, and all Kieren can see is his little sister, curled around a pillow, saying _We gotta stick together, eh?_

*

Simon is silent all the way back to Roarton, but Kieren can feel him thinking, staring out the window of the car, chewing on the miniscule remainder of his thumb nail (it will never grow; hell for a nail chewer). He doesn't engage in any of his dad's small talk to fill the silence. Kieren eases his fingers over to grasp Simon's other hand, fidgeting on the seat of the car, but he's not sure if Simon even notices. It's a long, quiet drive, leaving Kieren with an edgy restlessness as they drive back into town.

When they pull up outside the bungalow, Kieren doesn't even ask, just unhooks his seat belt and slides out after Simon.

"I'll phone later," he says before slamming the door on his parents (his dad in mid-sentence) and trotting after Simon, whose long, stomping strides up to the door speak as loudly as his silence. Kieren remembers suddenly that he hardly knows this man, that he can't read him at all right now. Up until a week ago, Simon was a willing member of an extremist terrorist sect. Kieren has a sudden panic that he may be out of his depth. 

Simon is pulling off his coat and boots just inside the entrance when Kieren gets there, follows him in, removes his own outerwear in the continued quiet. Simon's back is to him, so Kieren reaches out and touches his shoulder to turn him around. Simon's face is a blank mask, his jaw held tight. He doesn't meet Kieren's gaze.

"Hey," Kieren says, then crowds in and runs his tongue along Simon's throat. He can feel Simon relax a fraction, then lean down and claim Kieren's mouth in a long, slow, deep kiss that backs them up against the door. 

"That was a load of shite," Simon says, when Kieren lets his lips drop down to Simon's throat again. 

"You thought so?" Against Simon's skin, cool and soft. 

"Didn't you?"

"Well, I thought it would go differently. Hoped."

"Yeah, me as well." Simon shakes his head and then pulls back and finally looks Kieren right in the eyes. "Six months. It's a fucking crime."

"I know." Kieren lets himself relax for a moment, kiss Simon again, before he thinks. "Wait. What do you mean?"

Simon's brow crumples into question. Kieren realizes he's confused as well. "She killed that kid."

Shit. Kieren lets his hands fall away from Simon's waist. "Are you… you think she deserved worse?"

Simon steps back, crosses his arms. "Kieren, your sister murdered someone. Someone just like you. Just like me. Just because he was _like us_. Now these fucking geniuses think that having her work alongside the people she's been violently oppressing is some sort of just, thoughtful punishment? It's just more of the same shit, different day. It will be a punishment; a punishment for the unfortunate Undead who have to work with her. Or, god forbid, that other bastard, Kendal. What are we meant to do? After a few hours of ditch digging together, be noble and understanding and forgive her? It's a fucking _hate crime_ , Kieren. Christ."

The silence following this explosion of speech is dense. Kieren can hardly navigate his way through. 

"Jesus, Simon."

"You know I'm right about this, Kieren. It's a perversion of justice."

"But..." Kieren's voice is caught for a moment. 

"You aren't upset?"

"Yeah, I am." Kieren feels the slow build of his own anger. "I'm upset. I'm upset because my sister is going to prison for six fucking months!" The last three words come out as a shout. Simon steps further away.

"That's too easy, Kieren. I suppose you think she should get special treatment because she's your sister?"

"No. But I hoped she would. And to be perfectly honest, I thought you'd want that, too."

"Why would I?"

_For me. Simon. For me._ But Kieren's too angry for the truth, hears himself say, "If you don't know that, we have a problem."

"Kieren, you do understand that I have spent the last three years of my life fighting to change the very laws that today allowed your sister to be only mildly inconvenienced after taking the life of one of us. _Us_ , Kieren. You know that, don't you?"

"I thought you'd quit all that, _Mr. Disciple_." 

"I didn't quit fighting for our rights. For justice. For you, Kieren. Jesus Christ. You think today was something to celebrate?"

"No. God. No, Simon." This is too much. Kieren rubs his eyes, and when he pulls his hand away, it's streaked with black ichor. Simon's saying something more, he's blazing with words, but Kieren's hearing has tunneled out, and all he knows is that the same black shit that covered his chin and spattered his dad's clothes when he'd been dosed with Blue Oblivion is covering his palm and dripping from his nose. Cold terror ices his skin, and whatever Simon has to say means nothing. 

"Excuse me, sorry," Kieren brushes past Simon without another look, hand blocking his face. _Protect him. Get away._

The last thing he hears as he slams and locks the bathroom door is Simon's voice. "Don't walk away from this, Kieren." 

Kieren crouches in the corner of the bathroom until the tremors and leaking finally subside, what feels like an eternity later, and somehow Kieren is still himself. He cracks open the door, desperate. But Simon is gone. 

*


	8. The Subject

When Simon Monroe is twenty-one, he lasts exactly twelve days in New York City before he gets high. 

Living with Dara proves a challenge, mostly due to the fact that her boyfriend, an American bloke named Eric, is both actively dealing behind her back and quietly reciprocating Simon's desire to fuck him. The job she's lined up for him, night guard at a warehouse, is equally shit, boring and endless and exhausting. Meaningless. The tosser he works for offers him a joint on the first night. 

There's no magic, no transformation. No sign of Aidan Quinn or Rosanna Arquette. Just the same shit, the world telling him he's not needed and offering him an easy escape. But it's worse. This is New York. His last hope. _If I can't make it there, I can't make it anywhere._ It's up to you.

By the twelfth day, it's too much. He shoots up with Eric and then fucks him, right in Dara's bed. Skips work. Can't even be bothered to hide any of it. 

Day thirteen, he's kicked out, fired, and scrambling to avoid sleeping on the street. 

Eric supplies him with a few addresses in the Village, clubs mostly, and Simon allows himself to submerge, hooking up with anyone willing to let him crash for a few nights on a sofa in exchange for...well, anything really. Sex or drugs (Eric supplies him with junk to peddle as well. All around helpful pal, that Eric) or company. Finds Americans fall for his accent without much effort. He's still a good talker. None of it matters anymore anyway. 

Eric tracks him down every few days, makes sure he's well stocked and constantly numb. 

_Start spreading the news..._ Simon murmurs. _I'm leaving today._ But he doesn't. He doesn't have the will to even consider a way out of this. He stays, and stays, and sinks and sinks, and nothing changes for a long time.

*****

Simon wakes up in the dark. It is so black, he's not sure if his eyes are open or closed. His panicked thoughts ping off each other ( _buried again, blinded, dead, where am I, buried, Kieren, get out_ ) and he tries to rise. His body is weighted down, his limbs truly numb, as if they are detached from his body. Tries to raise his head and slams into something just above. Wants to make a noise, but there is something over his nose and mouth, smothering him. 

He can't help himself. He starts to thrash, throwing his uncooperative arms against the hard sides of whatever small space he has been trapped in. 

More awareness comes in, a rattle and vibration, a momentum shift, making him sway and roll. _Calm. Think._ He's in a vehicle, and it's stopping. Simon tries to move again, but he still cannot, he can only wriggle and jerk, and there seems to be no way out. 

There is a sudden stillness as the engine vibrations cease, and Simon falls still, realization like a lightning flash. _It's happening. They have me._ He tries to piece together the last moments he remembers in Roarton: arguing with Kieren, walking out, needing space, and then a flash, being grabbed? Recalls a stabbing pain in his spine. Was he drugged? What happened to Kieren? Shit. It's like drowning. He can't surface, can't hold the memory.

Blinding light floods in. Boot of a car, Simon realizes, not that it helps. He can't stop himself from struggling against the flare of sunlight, trying to fix his eyes on his captor and steel himself for what's inevitable. Thinks, for a painful moment, of Kieren. 

A familiar face comes into focus, looming over him, far too close, taking up all of the sky and mercifully blocking the light. He didn't expect her, of all of them, to be his executioner. (Thought it would be Julian again, maybe Kate. Maybe both.) When she speaks, her voice is tense and rushed, pushed out through her teeth right into his ear. Simon thinks, _something's wrong._

"Don't try to speak. You're safe. You don't know me. My name is Nina." Her dark eyes lock with his, and he can hear that there are a thousand other words she can't say. 

"Bloody hell," sighs a man who appears next to her (dark flop of hair, name badge). "Don't tell him your _name_."

"Sorry."

"Training program's gone to shit."

"Sorry, sir. Yes." _Sir?_ Nina steps back, but her gaze (pleading, so dark; she must have specialty lenses) never leaves Simon. Last time he saw her she passed him keys at a ULA meeting at the commune. What is this? 

"Oh, go right ahead. Perhaps you'd like to inform the subject of our mission objectives as well. Hand him a map. Maybe plan a dinner date?" The man's name badge wobbles over Simon's head as he reaches into the boot. He seems to be working on something. Simon can focus only enough to read his name: Oliver. Nina steps back, gives Simon a little nod (reassurance? _You're safe_ ) and then simply stares. 

The bloke, Oliver, has leaned in further, continues to fiddle with something, Simon can't move, or feel. Just keeps his eyes on Nina. Tries to mouth a message to her ("Find Kieren Walker") but his jaw isn't working.

"...Just need...get this turned up...there we go," Oliver says, standing up and clapping his hands together in satisfaction. He reaches back in, adjusts something (breathing mask?) tight over Simon's nose and mouth. Simon wants to scream, fight, but his body is lead, he can't even raise a shoulder to resist.

"Nighty-night," Oliver says with a smirk, and Simon catches Nina's pained expression for a moment just as the boot slams shut, and then Simon can't remember anything for a long while. 

*

When Simon feels himself starting to surface again, it is with a faint awareness of light in his eyes and gentle softness all around him. No longer in the boot then. His limbs remain impassive, but he can breathe again and the sense of being buried is gone. He experimentally attempts to open his eyes, finds that he can.

"Hello Simon."

Familiar voice, a nightmare voice. Simon turns his head. White lab coat, clipboard. Seated calmly at his side as if he's been there for some time.

"John?" 

"Are you comfortable?"

Dr. John Weston, leaning up in his chair and putting on a great show of caring for Simon's comfort.

"John. What the...where am I?" Simon looks around at his surroundings. The walls are wood paneled with decorative molding. A monitor behind him beeps out a short alarm. Simon tries to imagine what bodily function it might be measuring. He doesn't have many. 

"Don't struggle, Simon. You're safe here." That soothing, false calm in his voice, warm and empty. The shudder of betrayal and terror courses through Simon's veins. Suddenly, he is desperate to struggle. Resist.

"Where am I, John?" The place is elegant and worn; old-world wealth, just on the edge of decay. Not Norfolk. Simon attempts to rise and look around. Realizes his arms and legs are restrained against the metal bars of the bed. "John? Let me up."

"Simon, please listen." 

It's a strange and pointless request. Simon has no choice. He closes his eyes for a long moment, trying to get his bearings, figure out what might be happening. "You brought me here?" 

"I did. Yes."

"You...kidnapped me?"

"Retrieved you. I didn't believe you would come on your own."

Simon almost laughs. "No."

John stands and leans over the bed, smoothing the covers. "I hope my staff treated you respectfully." 

_His staff?_ "What do you want me to say, John?" _"It was an amiable abduction? A thoughtful drugging?"_ Kieren mutters in his head. _Oh, god. Kieren._

"I apologize for that, Simon. Simon." Weston's voice shifts then, he sits back and smiles, just faintly, lets out a little breath. Looks as if he's settling in to chat with a dear old friend. "I'm so very glad to see you."

It's eerie and chills Simon's icy body to the core. Weston's voice triggers a flood of memory (metal grating, delirium, terror) that attempts to crash over him, smother him. He looks at the ceiling.

"Let me up, please. John."

Weston nods, stands. "I've kept track of you, as much as possible. Not always easy, I will admit." He starts to loosen the restraint on Simon's left ankle, and the wave of horror recedes for a moment. "I hope you know, I've never forgotten...never forgiven...you will always be the first. Special, Simon. Special to me. Important." He continues around the bed, pulling loose the buckles. Simon flexes and stretches his abused limbs, pulls himself up to sitting. He is still light-headed, hungover from whatever they'd ( _Nina_ he recalls with a start) dosed him with. 

"Where are we, John?"

Weston lets his gaze drift around the room. "Do you like it? It's my research facility."

Simon shakes his head, trying to clear it. "You left Norfolk?"

Weston hesitates. "I did." He sighs. "Victor and I...our research interests...diverged," he says, his voice shaky, resuming his seat at Simon's elbow. "We found it would be more...productive if we worked separately for the time being."

This seems like news, important news, but Simon is too foggy and lost to even imagine what he should feel about it.

"I'm sorry, John."

"No, no. It's for the best. I've set up a new facility here. A generous admirer gifted my group use of his estate. You'll be allowed to walk the grounds if you wish. It's quite marvelous. Hedge maze and all."

 _Allowed?_ What the hell is going on? "Why am I here, John? I need to get home." _Home. Kieren._

Weston leans in suddenly and grabs Simon's hand, manic fervor blooming in his eyes. "I never stopped, Simon. I never stopped looking."

Simon swallows hard, tries to focus. "What?"

"It's happened, Simon. I've done it. I want you to be the first." Weston rises and wraps his arms around Simon's shoulders. Simon sits, passive, unbelieving. 

" _Need_ you to be the first." Weston's whisper rattles and echoes in Simon's ear. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back! After months of hiatus, I'm attempting to finally get the rest of this story out of my head. This is sadly unbetaed, my apologies.


	9. The Detective

When Kieren Walker is sixteen, his friend Rick stops speaking to him.

There is no precipitating event, at least not one that Kieren recollects. Rick had come over after school on Tuesday, as always: orgasms, maths, snacks from his mum, home early so Rick's dad won't suspect. Wednesday morning, Kieren passes Rick in the corridor at school, says, "Hey," and Rick just walks on by, continues to laugh along with Hector Timmons, like Kieren isn't even there.

It's not a fluke. Rick doesn't look his way during any of their classes, sits across the room at lunch (they don't often eat together, but by silent mutual agreement they usually sit at nearby tables), walks away towards the pitch at the end of the day with a horde of friends and a football. Not even a word. Not a glance.

Kieren makes excuses for Rick on his walk home. His dad must be in a mood, or his friends asked too many questions, or he maybe just didn't see Kieren? It was a bad day. Kieren doesn't sleep at all, making up reasons for Rick's silence.

Then the next day is the same.

Kieren stomps home, slams doors. His mum tries to appease him, brings a slice of pie to his door ("What is it, Kieren?"), but he'll have none of it. Turns his music up, blocks his door with a chair, paints in all blacks and purples for hours. Skivs off school work. Passes out in his clothes eventually, exhausted with anger.

Nothing changes. The weekend passes. Another week goes by. Kieren's beyond anger or confusion now. It almost feels like a game. _Who can ignore the other the longest?_ Once he's engaged, Kieren is desperate to win. Rick can spend his afternoons playing straight with his arsehole jock mates, and god speed. Kieren sits with Philip and Brian again (hasn't since grade eight) and makes sure to never let an accidental glance pass across the dining hall.

Kieren paints ferverishly, long into each evening, and that's where he is on Sunday afternoon when his mum pops her head in the door. 

"Kieren, Rick's here for ye."

Sheepish. That's how Rick looks, leaning against the entryway with a little forgive-me smile on his face. 

"Hey," he says, as if he's just answering Kieren in the corridor two weeks late. 

"Don't do that, Rick. Don't act like nothing's happened." Kieren is pleased to feel the anger returning in full force. 

"Yeah. I know. Shit." 

Kieren pulls the inner door closed in case his mum is listening, trapping them in the foyer. "What the hell were you doing?"

Rick lets one hand circle back over his neck, rubs. His eyes can't meet Kieren's, the coward. "I had to find out," he says at last.

Kieren has known for a long time that he's in love with Rick, but it hits him in the chest right now, like a tire iron. "Find out what," he manages, although he can't breathe. 

"If I'd miss ye." 

Kieren's jaw locks tight. "And?"

Rick finally looks up then, eyes and lips and everything so familiar and right. "I'm here, ain't I?" 

Kieren imagines, for just a moment, that this will be the moment Rick finally kisses him. But Rick only reaches out and rubs his shoulder, and then brushes past and steps back into Kieren's life as if he'd never left.

 

*****

 

Kieren hardly sleeps the night after Jem's sentencing. Too much to wonder, his mind won't settle down. Something is happening to his body, something that he should tell Dr. Russo about, but he hasn't. Spending too much time with Simon; the paranoia is wearing off. 

Simon. 

Kieren replays their argument about Jem's punishment over and over, a frustrating retread that does nothing to help and keeps him awake all hours.

He slips out of the house just before dawn. Can't face his parents and their resigned exhaustion over Jem. Can't face Jem's empty room. Can't face his own thoughts alone.

The cemetery is damp and dim when he arrives, the fine filter of pre-dawn light just starting to pick out the white crosses from the shadows. Kieren realizes he hasn't brought a flower, but it's mid-winter; he'll understand. Kieren's been here often enough that the small dent over the grave feels like _his_. 

He settles, running his fingers over the brown, soggy grass, wet with dew. Sighs. "So, what the hell should I do now, Rick?" The solid earth beneath him is silent, as always.

"Yeah, I know. Simon again. Had a row yesterday. Suppose it's your bad luck that you're stuck listening to me whinge." Kieren gently pats the grass and smiles. "I really thought that he was...that he would listen. Shit. How do people do this?" Kieren lets out a little laugh. "Jesus, look who I'm asking. This was not your best area." He sighs. "It's too much, Rick. I just want it to be easy for once. Why can't it just be easy?" 

Kieren closes his eyes and lets the thoughts come. "The worst part is that he's right. Simon's right. Jem killed Henry, and that's...shit. She killed a lot of us, people just like you and me. But, Christ, but how can I even think that?"

Kieren sits, waiting for an answer, as the winter sunlight finally leaks up through the trees and starts the new day.

*

After the cemetery, Kieren knows where he needs to be. The bungalow is still and quiet at this early hour, but he can't wait. He knocks at the door. There is no sign of movement, no lights, nothing. Tries again, Simon could be ignoring him. Or asleep. It's silent. Kieren tries again, knocks at the bedroom window even, but there's nothing. It's as if Simon has never returned after he'd left the day before. 

Maybe he hasn't. Oh god. Kieren's body floods with ice. Simon.

Kieren walks around the the back entrance, the kitchen window is ajar and he pushes it wide enough to slide through. Shouts, "Simon?" but gets no response. He clamors, inelegantly, through the window. 

There's no sign of trouble inside. In fact, the bungalow looks exactly the way Kieren left it the day before, right down to the poetry book open on the sofa and the sheets draped off the bed from where Kieren himself had kicked them off the morning previous. It seems certain. Simon hasn't come home. 

Kieren's mind is flooded with scenarios: where he could have gone, what danger he might be in. But mostly it's the horrifying thought: _he's left because of me._

Kieren sinks down onto the sofa, head in hands. He's there for a while, trying to steady himself and stop jumping to insane conclusions (his brain is failing to obey, as usual). Finally let's himself open his eyes. His gaze settles on Simon's coat, dropped unceremoniously in the chair opposite. Notices Simon's injection kit, sitting on the edge of the counter, just where he'd placed it after yesterday's dose.

_That's not right._ Kieren sits up straight. _He wouldn't leave that behind._ Even for an overnight. Even for a day trip. Simon might hate everything about Halperin and Weston, about his need for the drug, but Kieren is (almost) positive he would never want to revert to a rabid state. He cooks his own homebrew, he's not casual about it. 

If Simon didn't bring his injection kit (or his coat), Simon left against his will. If he left against his will, he's in trouble. If he's in trouble, Kieren needs to help. 

"Help," Kieren says out loud, just to say it. "Simon." He's on his feet grabbing the injection kit before he is even aware of his intentions. Dashes out, not sure where to start.

The streets of Roarton are silent at this hour, only an occasional car in the distance. Kieren's mind whirrs through the list of neighbors and friends as he runs, forcing his stiff legs along. Only a trusted few here, now. Still hard to know who's really on his side. On Simon's.

Shirley. Maybe Shirley knows. Maybe Simon got a second injection kit from Shirley, and he's just off in a huff for the day. Yes. That could be it.

Kieren lets his pace slow. _Stop freaking out, you idiot._ Tries to amble up to the Wilson's door as if he's just stopping in for a visit. He should visit Philip anyhow, shouldn't he?

Lights are on at the house, so Kieren knocks loud. Hears some fumbling and footsteps and then Shirley throws open the door. She's in the midst of pulling on her coat and grappling with her handbag. Hair loose and wild beneath her hat. She's obviously in a panic.

"Oh goodness. Kieren. What a disaster," she says, without introduction. "Philip's run off again. Heard him clattering about while I was still sleeping. Peered out my window, saw him dashing off. All manner of...supplies with him. Tools. He's never stopped talking about her, about how he knows she's still out there, and...god..." She stops, drops her face into her hands. Takes a deep breath, lets it out, then looks at Kieren as if she sees him for the first time. Pulls him into the light of the entryway. "Sweetheart, you aren't looking too well yourself. What is it?"

Kieren can't keep up. Can't bother her with his petty concerns about Simon now. Doesn't like the sound of _tools_. "I...I can help you look."

"Could you, darling? I was going to take the car, drive through town. Could you walk a bit, search some of those old spots you boys liked to haunt?" 

"Sure." 

"You're a lifesaver, Kieren. Truly." Shirley has her keys out. They head out the door and Shirley bustles into her Honda. "Meet me back here?" Her voice is so strained. 

Kieren nods. 

Just as she starts the car, Kieren gets out, "Shirley, has Simon ever been to see you?"

Kieren can see that she actually stops for a moment to think, then shakes her head. "Your handsome Simon? No, not that I recall. Kieren, What is it? Is everything alright?" 

Kieren's heart, still and cold, gives a little shudder in his chest (how will he ever find Simon now?). "Yeah, it's nothing." As she pulls out of the drive, he feels a tremble start in his hand, keeps it clutched firmly at his side.

Breathe. Find Philip. Find Simon. _Punctuated equilibrium_.

*

Kieren hears Philip before he sees him. The sound is a steady rhythm of scrape and toss. As Kieren is just outside the gates of the cemetery, he has a good guess as to what the sound means. 

Shirley was right that Philip had taken a lot of tools. He's got several shovels and what appears to be a rucksack filled with small hacksaws, trowels, even an ax. Kieren gets a good look at the scene as he approaches before Philip catches sight of him. 

Philip is standing hip deep in Amy's grave. He's filthy, covered in mud from head to toe. He pauses for a moment when he sees Kieren, and then just starts digging again. Small clods of dirt fly out, but it's clear that Philip's bit off more than he can chew in digging up a grave. His arms can scarcely heft the shovel. 

"Hey," Kieren says. Thinks how odd his life has become that he's not even surprised to find his old friend grave digging. In fact, this is the first place he thought to look. Seemed obvious.

"Hey," Philip huffs back, between shovelfuls.

Kieren sits on the edge of the nearest headstone, quietly watching Philip for a few minutes. Remembers his empty eyes, his confidence that someone (Amy) had altered the grave, taken the stuffed tiger. He doesn't look empty now, his eyes are full of purpose. _What would I do,_ Kieren ponders, _if I thought I could bring back Rick? Save Simon? I'd dig up the entire earth if I could._

"Can I help?" Kieren asks.

*

Kieren's strong now, remarkably strong compared to his former self. Before. He doesn't advertise this fact, or use it (he's noticed not many of them do). Knows he has this strength so that he can knock people down, bash their heads in, and break them open. Remembers doing it. 

They're all strong, the Undead. Predators. It's not something Kieren's proud of.

Now though, Kieren takes the shovel from Philip, and uses his strength. Scoops out shovel after shovel of soil, easily tosses it all away. Philip collapses against a headstone and watches, his face solemn and grim. 

"I have to know, Kieren. If she's there. I can't keep wondering forever." 

"I know." Kieren lets another clump of soil fly. "Should have told your mum where you went, though. She's going mad." 

"What's she so worried about?"

Kieren realises he really doesn't know. "That you'll kill yourself."

"Oh." Philip gets quiet then.

As Kieren digs deeper, surrounded by the wet, thick smell of earth, he has to look up at the sky at regular intervals to keep his mind from closing in. Flashes and flickers of another grave (his own), and it gets hard to breathe. The physical work, though, is a release. The hell of Amy's death, Jem's trial, anger at Simon, Simon's disappearance, Philip's misery, all fade for a moment in the hot burn of his muscles (so much sensation today) and the pull of his bones. 

It takes a long time. When the shovel finally hits wood, Kieren is just starting to think he'll have to give it up. But then Philip jumps in with the small tools and together they clear the final layer of grime away. The flowers Kieren had painted are already mostly gone, but it's the right casket. Once it is clear, they both clamor out.

Digging it up is one thing, opening it is another. 

Philip's brought a length of rope that they wind around the corners to lift the lid. Kieren offers to do it alone (he's seen Amy dead before, after all) but Philip insists. Kieren pulls on the ropes and feels the lid slowly give way. He pulls and pulls, backing up from the grave, watching Philip closely as the lid rises. Philip's eyes widen slightly as he stares down into the gash in the earth, his expression maddeningly neutral.

"Can you see in?" Kieren asks through gritted teeth, still holding hard to the rope. 

In one swift motion, Philip presses his hands hard to his face and then his shoulders start to shake. _There it is,_ Kieren thinks. _She's there. Amy._ He's not sure he can take any more heartbreak.

Philip mutters something behind his hands, muffled, impossible to understand. Then he says it again. And again. Lowers his hands and looks at Kieren and says it again. 

"It's empty." 

*

They lever up the lid all the way and stake it open with the rope. Philip lowers himself into the empty, satin interior. It's muddy inside, even before he hops in. 

"She's not here, Kieren." 

"She's not."

Kieren can't stop staring into the empty coffin. _How can this be?_ His hand tremor returns, he can't steady it. Jams his hand in his pocket.

Philip pokes around in the coffin, as if Amy might be hidden somewhere in the crevices of the lining, as if they must be mistaken. 

It's all wrong, Kieren knows. The coffin in intact. The grave was solid, no hole where Amy pushed her way through. She hasn't risen. Someone's taken her. Someone's taken Amy, and maybe (probably) someone's taken Simon, and the chill that runs through Kieren's body now is not an illusion, it's an icy dread that goes all the way to his fingertips.

"Here's something stuck under the pillow," Philip mutters from six feet below. Hands up a sliver of plastic to Kieren.

It's a name badge, smeared with soil, but as Kieren wipes it clean he sees the logo clearly, Halperin and Weston (oh god), and the photo, long dark hair, serious face. Employee ID#. Security Access. On the reverse, Name. Nina Hawthorne.

*


	10. The Lost

When Simon Monroe is twenty-six, he sees his mother for the last time. 

He doesn’t know it’s the last time, of course, and neither does she.

His disaster in New York had been mercifully cut short by his arrest during a drugs bust and the discovery of his expired Visa. He’d been unceremoniously kicked out of the country and sent home carrying only his memorabilia from years abroad: a small satchel full of knick-knacks, a heroin addiction, and an HIV diagnosis. He doesn’t tell anyone he’s returned.

Home. He lives rough on the streets, stops having sex, doubles up on drugs. Nothing left to live for, no hope. Simon remembers almost nothing of this time, just a blur of endless days that mean nothing, marking time until the (inevitable, when will it finally come?) end. 

He’s reclined on a park bench watching birds, far too sober, when he sees her, bustling along with an armload of parcels. Shopping. Simon can’t move. She looks the same, as if time had stopped for her while he’s been away. 

“Mum.” The word escapes before he can stop it. 

He cannot imagine what she sees when she looks at him. 

She doesn’t cry or yell or run. She looks at him for a long moment and then walks over to the bench and Simon eases up to give her room. As far as he is aware, she hasn’t known whether he was alive or dead for five years. She sits at his side. ( _Oh Christ, she smells the same._ )

It’s very quiet. Simon stares at his own hands, sees they are shaking. 

“You’re here,” she says.

“Yeah.” 

“What do you need?” she asks, her voice steady. Simon can’t breathe, thinking of all of the things he needs that he will never ask for. 

He can’t answer. “How’s Da?” he asks instead.

“He worries. Keeps a room ready for ye.”

“Tell him I’m alright.”

She takes his hand (which is filthy; he wants to wrench it out from her soft, tidy grasp) and says, “I don’t lie to your father, Simon.”

He breathes deep, then laces his fingers through hers and holds tight. She’d never tolerated lying. “I’m lost, Mum.”

“I know, sweetheart.” 

After a long time, she stands up, releasing his hand. (He thinks later about the warmth of that final touch between them, especially when he can’t feel anything anymore.) “You can come home anytime, Simon. No questions asked.” She looks into the far distance over his shoulder and opens her mouth as if to say something more. But she doesn’t. 

She turns suddenly and hurries away (not looking back), leaving behind a lavender and sage cloud of memory. 

Her forgiveness feels like a hot knife in his gut. Simon practically runs to find his next fix, escape the burning humiliation of his failure. In his feverish dreams, he sees her walking towards him, again and again, and falling into her open arms.

*****

The next day, Simon is no longer strapped to the bed, but he's just as much a prisoner at Weston's facility as before. His door has a brutal latch and his windows are barred. The room itself once must have been a lovely bedroom at the estate- marble mantle over a large fireplace, carved ceiling accents, wood moulding- but the hospital bed and medical electronics kill the pastoral mood. 

They've left a selection of books and magazines for his enjoyment. Simon stares out the window instead, trying to get a handle on his situation. 

He’s being held against his will by the doctor who brought him back from the dead. His ULA comrade Nina is here, acting for all of the world as if she’s joined the Halperin and Weston team. And John Weston wants to test something on him. Again. Simon tries to empty his mind of the sharp recollections of terror and humiliation ( _chains, injections, probes, metal cutting his skin_ ) and focus on what to do next. But the memories hold tight.

And Christ, what’s happened to Kieren? _Kieren._ Simon closes his eyes.

The heavy thud of the lock being pulled back startles Simon into the present. He turns, defensive, against whatever might come through the door, aware of his own simmering strength, just beneath the surface.

“Morning, Mr. Monroe.” It’s Nina, and it’s still a shock to see her here. She’s bustling too quickly, fake smile plastered on her face under what Simon knows to be a tremendous quantity of mousse (Nina was a make-up artist, before she died; taught Simon how to do himself up on the rare days he needed to). “Time for some fresh air.” She’s holding a thick pair of shackles, and before Simon can speak she kneels down and affixes them to his ankles. She’s dressed in a professional suit, a shiny name badge dangling from her lapel. She doesn’t meet his gaze.

Instead, she stands and makes her way to a cupboard near the bed. “Can’t forget your daily,” she says, grabbing a syringe and then efficiently leaning his head down and injecting neurotriptyline into his spine. She’s done it for him before, dozens of times, and memories threaten to swarm him again ( _early days with the Prophet, the camaraderie of the disciples, being with his own at last_ ). He can feel her strong hands on his head and neck, like back at the safe house, that first day.

Then, right next to his ear, she murmurs, “Trust me, Simon,” so quiet that he’s not sure he’s really heard her at all. 

He doesn’t have much choice. Simon follows her out of his room and down the corridor, shuffling his feet along in the shackles.

Simon takes the opportunity to assess his surroundings: well maintained historic manor house, fully outfitted with high-tech security that is visible in almost every corner. Barred windows, locked interior doors, motion detectors, cameras. He attempts to appear nonchalant as he glances around, aware of the lenses capturing his interest from every angle. Nina doesn’t speak again, or even look back at him.

She runs a key card through a scanner and they emerge into the grey light of day.

Nina leans close. “Struggle,” she murmurs.

“What?”

“Struggle,” she whispers with more urgency. “If you act up, I’m required to walk with you.”

Simon pauses only a moment before elbowing Nina as if to run. In a moment, she has a taser out of its holster (hidden at her side) and Simon puts up his hands in surrender. Their eyes finally meet, and she gives him a sharp nod before indicating that he should make his way around the well-tended lawn behind the house (Simon briefly considers Weston’s budget for gardeners). He turns and they start a plodding circuit, Nina still wielding the taser. 

One other couple (patient and guard, Simon supposes) is also out of doors, far down a pathway and almost out of sight. Otherwise, all is quiet nobility. Simon wonders if Weston likes it this way to keep his prisoners out of balance. Beauty and terror.

“This may be our only chance to speak,” Nina says in a murmur. 

“What the hell is going on?” Simon bites back the urge to yell, knows Nina is not who he is angry with.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she replies, her mouth hardly moving. “Out of contact. I’ve been with Halperin and Weston for two months, working my way into this place.”

“You’re on a mission?” Nina nods. “Two months?” She nods again. 

Simon’s mind reels at the extent of her commitment, the complexity of keeping her undead status hidden for that long. She’s the Prophet’s third disciple, first woman follower, a calm, driven force for equality in the ULA. Nina was never sent to the Treatment Centre herself; the Prophet had taken her in her rabid state and treated her on his own, using the recipe he’d eventually shared with all of the disciples. She’s an unknown, a behind-the-scenes leader, more likely to stay in and plan a rally or raid than ever participate herself. Perfect cover. A spy.

“The Prophet sent you here?”

“Infiltrate Weston’s new facility.” Nina’s eyes dart back towards the manor.

“Where’s Halperin?”

“Hell if I know. They don’t speak to each other any more, though. I’m sure of that. Had a falling out and have gone their separate ways. We believe he’s still at Norfolk.” They turn a corner of the lawn, walk along a bank of bare and prickly rose bushes. Simon suddenly supposes it’s cold, and shivers. Nina keeps the taser at the ready. Simon can see at least three cameras following their movements.

“What does Weston want with me?”

“Dunno exactly. Haven't been in long enough to find out all of the details. He’s developing some sort of new treatment. I mostly get sent out on recovery missions with nothing but an address or a name. Almost broke cover when I saw your name come up.”

“Recovery missions. Jesus. Nina.”

“I know.”

They are silent for a moment. Simon continues his small, restricted steps in the shackles and Nina keeps pace. 

“Can you get me out?” Simon eyes the vast gardens, the low walls. There must be a way.

“I won’t risk my operation. But if I can...” Nina looks up, then suddenly grabs Simon’s elbow as if to drag him back towards the house. Even her hands, even her _fingernails_ , are perfectly disguised with cover up. 

Simon realizes that the conversation is over due to the fact that the other pair he’d seen earlier has turned the corner of the house and is walking right towards them. 

He looks, and then he stares, dragging Nina to a stop. 

_“Impossible.”_ Simon’s not sure if he just thinks the word, or says it aloud.

The two figures approaching are both women, neither shackled as he is. One is in the white coat and practical trousers of a doctor, trim blond hair bobbed at her jawline. But Simon’s attention is fixed on the other woman. Long dark hair, hospital scrubs almost hidden beneath a long, bulky wool cardigan with embroidered flowers decorating the neckline, a certain skipping hop to her step and toss to her head as she talks to the doctor. Jesus. It can’t be.

The two women catch sight of them, and Simon can see the moment that she recognizes him as well. He cannot hear what she says, but she’s definitely shouting something and running towards him, cardigan flapping around her.

When she’s within arm’s reach, she launches herself into his arms. 

Simon is unsteady. She almost knocks him over. 

“My white knight,” she says in a whisper. “You’re here.”

“You died,” he says, mostly to remind himself.

“Simon Monroe. Like that’s ever kept me down before,” Amy ( _Amy_ ) replies, and Simon can’t hold on tight enough. 

*

There is a lot of bustling around and whispering and hushed phone calls once Nina and the blonde doctor have brought Simon and Amy back in through the locked doors and settled them into chairs in the corridor. Nina leaves them with a stern look that says _Don’t you dare to make trouble now._ Trouble enough already.

Amy has not let go of Simon’s arm. He can’t feel it, of course, but he keeps looking down at her hand gripping at him, willing this all to be real. 

Amy looks different, _changed_ , healthy glow of blood flow beneath her skin, deep brown irises, pink lips and cheeks red from the cold. Simon feels a twinge of self-consciousness about his own icy, bare skin, the rips along his wrist, his hollow eyes, has the briefest intense desire to hear the comforting words of the Prophet. Amy pulls him closer and the moment passes.

“They brought you back,” he whispers.

“Well, I can’t say precisely what they did, seeing as I’d croaked,” she says, and it’s like home to hear her voice. “But that’s what they’ve told me. Said whatever I am, I’m not exactly alive, so I wasn’t completely dead.” Amy leans in against Simon’s shoulder, folding her legs up under her. 

“Not alive?”

“More alive than I was. They're still poking and prodding at me to see what’s workin’. Seems I’m…,” flutter of eyelashes, “... _unique_.” 

_Amy_. “Don’t need doctors to tell me that,” Simon says with a grin.

Amy gives him a little punch to the shoulder and then resettles against his side. 

Simon keeps an eye on Nina, who is down the corridor holding an animated conversation with the man ( _Oliver_ ) who had dosed him in the boot of the car. He can’t hear much, but Oliver is obviously scolding her, and probably about him. Simon wonders how many risks she’s already taken just to speak with him.

“How did you end up on this lovely holiday with me, Mr. Disciple?”

Simon shakes from his reverie. How had this all happened? “They took me off the street. Drugged.”

“Oh my god, Simon.” Amy levers herself up and looks him in the eye. So sincere. “Why?” 

“Weston wants me for something.” Simon’s never told anyone that he was first to respond to neurotriptyline (too much responsibility, his fault, all of it), can’t bring himself to do it now. “He remembers me. From before.”

“Have you been hurt?” 

Simon shakes his head, then adds, loud enough for everyone in the corridor to hear, “But it is my right to have these shackles removed.” Heads turn his way, but no one approaches with a key. Nina doesn’t even look.

Amy shifts herself upright and grabs Simon’s hands in her own. Her voice is a pleading whisper. “Please don’t get smart with them, Simon. Please. Just do what they ask.” He hasn’t adjusted to her new eyes, so bright and deep. “I can feel again, Simon. I feel everything. Your jumper, skin against my fingertips. The draft from that window, hair tickling my neck. I can’t miss any more. Please.”

Simon runs his fingers along her cheek and she leans into the touch. Greedy. He nods and sits back. “I’ll be good,” he promises her, and she smiles.

“Thank you.”

It’s quiet as she sits back in her chair, still holding his hand. Her voice doesn’t have its usual lilt when she whispers, “How’s Kieren?” 

Simon thinks about the last time he saw Kieren, doesn’t know what to say. Tries, “Not well. Missing you.”

It’s a strained moment, more complicated that Simon knows how to navigate, but then the mood breaks and Amy snorts a laugh, rolls her eyes, and taps his shoulder with her knuckles. “Dummy, that’s not what I meant. I know you two are lovebirds, ye know.”

“Lovebirds?”

“Chirp, chirp, Mr. Snog.”

Simon closes his eyes and imagines the smooth touch of Kieren’s hands, what it would be like to really feel him against his skin. Has to get out of this place. “I should have talked to ye,” he says at last.

“Indeed,” she replies, her voice still a forced cheery. “Lucky for you, I’m the forgiving sort.”

Simon raises an eyebrow. “There’s a young man in Roarton devastated over you.”

“Is he devastated? Oh, my poor Philip.” He voice drops to a whisper. “They have to let us out of here, Simon. How can we get out?”

Simon looks up at Nina, who is still deep in conversation with Oliver, and whispers, “I’m on it,” in reply. Amy collapses against Simon again in a long, hard hug, and Simon wishes, with all his soul, that he could feel what she’s feeling.

"But anyway, enough chit chat.” Amy bursts upright, her expression suddenly full of indignance. “I was stabbed."

"You were."

"Do you know why? That woman thought _I_ was the first risen. Was that what we were doing there, Simon? Finding someone to stab? Because that's a bloody awful mission to be selected for.”

Simon is tempted to laugh, but he is well aware of how little humor there is in what she’s said. He manages an inadequate, “I know,” but then the door at the end of the corridor slams open and John Weston is walking purposefully towards them.

“Patients back to rooms, if you please,” Weston pronounces, in his aggravating calm.

Simon is just able to see which door Amy is ushered into before Oliver shoves him back into his own room (cell) and the bolts slam shut behind him. 

*

Hours later, and Simon’s mind still whirls. He has to get out. His skin itches.

He’s been left entirely alone, but footsteps echo past at frequent intervals and the loud squeak of cart wheels punctuates the emptiness. Weston’s facility is alive with activity, just outside his door.

He can’t sit. Paces the room. Finds himself unable to stop thinking about his mother, her patience, her understanding. Wants it for himself, right now. Wishes he could cry properly; he’s congested with fear. Wants to run, find Kieren, beg forgiveness, never stop running. 

When the doctors burst into his room, Simon does not even have time to react. There are six of them, in full scrubs. Two of them grab his arms. One of them has a tasing rod, hissing its charge. 

Weston is there. Simon can feel the false kindness in his eyes leaking out all over the room. 

“On the bed, please,” Weston says, and Simon realizes Weston’s speaking to him, thinks he’ll just do as he’s asked.

“Why?”

“You’ll be more comfortable.”

“For what?”

Weston looks at him, that soppy, needy gaze, and Simon notices for the first time how much this man wants to be liked, how much power he could have over him if he tried. 

“Please sit,” Weston says, and Simon does, shaking off the restraining hands and perching on the edge of the bed. He can see the open door, imagines running through it. 

Weston pulls on gloves, sits beside Simon on the bed. “Isn’t it a miracle, Simon. What’s happened to your friend Amy?”

Simon can’t read Weston’s tone, long ago stopped being able to hear his voice as anything but a threat. He can’t respond. 

Weston talks on. “She was the key, Simon, and we found her at last. And you will be the first to turn the lock. I promised you.”

As he speaks, one of the other doctors, the blonde woman he’d seen with Amy earlier, is preparing an injection kit. The little clicks and cracks of the assembly sizzle up Simon’s spine like sensation. 

“What are you doing, John?”

“Just an injection, Simon.” Weston is holding the syringe now, inspecting and prepping it, just as Simon has himself hundreds of times. 

“Where’s Amy?” Simon knows his heart can’t be racing, but he can feel his pulse anyway, hammering in his ears. The doctor with the taser has stepped closer, raised the rod.

“No one is in danger here. Relax. It will just take a moment.”

Weston’s hands on the back of his neck, leaning him over for his shot, but this is different, everyone in the room is still, and Simon is frozen in fear.

“What are you giving me?” Simon asks, head bowed.

The soft click of the trigger, and then. And then. 

A wave of cold and shock, ripples of pain down his arms like needles, and a rush of sensation, like his entire body is covered in ice, or fire. Simon feels himself start to fall back, shaking, unable to hold himself up against the tide rising through him. 

Before the darkness takes him, he sees John Weston’s hopeful gaze, feels his hands carefully guiding him down onto the bed. 

“It’s your cure, Simon. Your cure.”

*


End file.
